Shattered Minds
by PipPipCheerios
Summary: A year has went by since the events on Mount Washington took place, and the eight survivors are having a difficult time moving on with their lives. Join them as they desperately try to recover their lost humanity. And to forgive the man who started it all. Trials and tribulations await them. Can they learn to let go of the past? Or will the past destroy them? (On Hiatus)
1. Chapter 1

**Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 1**

 _ **November 10**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Wednesday**_

 _ **Josh**_

 _The human mind is a very complex thing. It's what separates us from other mammals. It's what puts us at the top of the food chain. We have no claws, no fangs, no venom, no wings, no nothing. Except for our brains. In the animal kingdom only the strongest survives. Humans are the rare exception to this rather vague rule. In a carnivore's world a lion survives only if it's fast enough and strong enough to bring down its prey. A man on the other hand needs only resources and his brain to create a tool that works as his claws, fangs, venom, and wings._

 _But what happens when that same mind shatters? What happens when someone slowly drifts into madness? Such questions lead to many studies; however, none of them bring to the table definite proof of what happens inside the mind. The human brain is a glorious organ, but, within the blink of an eye, it can become our greatest enemy._

"It's a good start. I'm actually surprised you even bothered with the assignment. You made it pretty clear last week you wasn't going to do it. It's—"

"Now, hold your horses, Mr. PhD, I—"

"Josh you know that's not my name. If you're wanting me to schedule you an extra appointment this week, then not taking this seriously is the way to do it. We're here for _you._ Not me. Not your parents. You. It's about _you_ and _your_ recovery. I doubt you want to make a return to Lambrook."

The two men speaking had been seeing each other once every week for the past five months. Their conversations were held in a little office that smelt like peppermint, and beside a large window that you could look out and see dozens of cars flying down the expressway. Their names were Dr. Eddington, a renowned psychologist known as the writer of the book: _Surviving the Grief,_ and Josh Melanie Washington, a client who'd rather be anywhere but inside some old guy's office.

The tension was high between them due to the fact that Josh hated homework assignments. He hated them in high-school, and he hated them more now. "How is writing about my illness supposed to help me? Tell me doc. How? I'd love to hear it." Josh wouldn't budge. He glared silently at his old therapist. _This guy's out of his fucking mind if he thinks I'm gonna write three pages of this shit,_ his thoughts surfaced as he awaited his answer.

It wasn't because he was bitter that he—okay, maybe he was a _little_ bit bitter. But who wouldn't be? He'd literally lost everything within the span of a year or two. His sisters, his friends, his home, his sanity, his place in modern society. He had little to lose, and he made that evident in his tone whenever he was met by authority figures or pretentious assholes who asked him the same damn question: "Do you see dead people?" He used to love that movie. Man, times had changed.

"Josh," Eddington sighed, rubbing his head tiredly, "you know I'm here to help. All I ask is that you give me a chance. We've known each other for some time now, and you haven't spoken a word about what's troubling you. I know it's hard talking about the incident, but in order for us to move forward, you have to come clean with me." It was then Josh sunk down into his chair and crossed his arms.

"Look doc, can I call you doc? You have very little," he brought out his pinky and wiggled it as a ridiculous visual representation, "influence over my life. I see you once a week so that you can tell me crap I already know. That's where the line ends for you." His eyes flicked down at the paper. "And this assignment is a poor excuse to give me busy work." He scooted the sheet of paper away from him as if it was plague infected. He'd grown to learn that playing on the defensive was always the best strategy in most situations. Don't let the enemy see you quiver, stand straight up even though you have the entire world on your shoulders, and never, _never_ , cry. Too bad he didn't learn those lessons earlier. They would've saved him a lot of grief.

Dr. Eddington frowned as he adjusted his glasses. Josh was an entire desk away yet his anger could be felt across the room. It was obvious doc wasn't going to get through to the kid, and when the old man peered up at the clock, it said that it was time for Josh to go. Feeling partially guilty and partially disappointed in himself for failing to get his patient to open up, Eddington gathered up the single piece of paper, a notable frown still on his face, and led Josh to the door. "I guess we'll make an appointment for next week? How does Monday sound?"

"Whatever," Josh grumbled before opening the door and stepping back out into the waiting room. There were at least ten people who were sitting in chairs. Every single one of them had to be in their late thirties and addicted to some kind of drug. Meth most likely. He simply walked by them, pretending they weren't all staring at him with their beady little cockroach eyes.

It was early morning when he exited the building, and with mid-November approaching, the leaves on the trees were beginning to change color, as the smell of pine was more alive than ever. It was a peaceful backdrop even for Josh; however, that peacefulness ended as soon as he entered his mom's car.

The woman didn't even attempt to turn the key and drive. Instead she cupped her son's shoulder and asked: "How did it go? Did you let Dr. Eddington see what you wrote?"

Not wanting to listen to her any more than what he had to, Josh smiled and nodded his head accordingly. "Yeah, he liked it a lot," he lied, something he seemed to be doing a lot of. "Told me that I'm a lot smarter than what I give myself credit for." His mom bought into it like a naive child. "Let's get home. I'm exhausted. Do you think we can stop by Taco Bell?"

"Sure, honey." She cranked up the mustang, and as they started to drive off, Josh couldn't help but to look up at the second floor and through the window of the office he'd just left. He saw Dr. Eddington at his desk, pen in hand, writing something. Probably something about him. Josh ignored it and leaned the car seat back.

"Just get me a number ten with sprite," he ordered, eventually dozing off.

After returning home and eating his lunch, Josh slipped into his room for a time so he could listen to music and chill on his bed. Doctor appointments always tired him out. Though before doing that he entered his closet, which could've been bigger than a mobile home and was filled to the brim with shoes and clothes, and brought out his favorite ninja turtle pajama pants. "Ah, nothing says mental patient quite like a grown man wearing kiddie pajama bottoms," he said quietly to himself as he smelt the pants. "Smells like victory." He laughed maniacally as he put them on.

He then retrieved his phone from beside his computer on his computer desk and jumped into bed covering himself. A breath of relief soon followed. Nothing says relaxation like a soft bed and good music. The small dresser beside him housed a pair of headphones that he quickly reached over to pick up and put on his head. He strummed through his Spotify music selection until arriving to one of his favorite songs by one of his favorite bands: The Freshman by The Verve Pipe. He shut his eyes and slowly began to fade into obscurity.

 _When I was young I knew everything. . . ._

During one of the choruses he felt his phone vibrate beside him. Grunting, he picked the phone up to see who it was. The last time someone texted him was about a week ago, and the person who did was someone he met during his stay at Lambrook. A guy named Jordan. But their conversation died a long time ago, and plus this new number wasn't a part of his contacts. He thought it odd and even more odd when he actually read the text that was sent.

 _507-469-6458: Hey, booger. It's Sam. I heard you've been out of the loony bin for a while. Your mom called a few days ago and gave me your new number. Sorry I wasn't there to see you when you got back. How long has it been? A year? Oh well. Doesn't matter now does it? Look, I know you probably wasn't expecting this, but I would love to meet up somewhere this week. Don't worry, it'll just be me. And no I don't plan on killing you lol, or whatever other paranoid thought that brain f yours might concoct. I would offer to take you out somewhere to eat, but I don't think you'd like eating vegan. What did you used to call it? Dirty hippie food? Something like that._

 _Josh: Okay. Let's get something straight. It's not "dirty hippie food" it's dirty animal food. You're pretty much eating the same diet as a fucking cow. Not saying you're fat or anything._

 _Sam: You're such an asshole. I'm glad to see you haven't changed._

 _Josh: You know what they say. You are what you eat._

 _Sam: Ewww! How long did it take you to come up with that one?_

 _Josh: As long as it took some willing girl to shit in my mouth._

 _Sam: I'm already regretting this conversation. You need some mental help. Oh, wait..._

 _Josh: Leave it to you to pick on the mentally handicapped. I can hear the cows clapping in the background._

 _Sam: Butt-face._

 _Josh: Tree humper._

 _Sam: You mean tree-hugger?_

 _Josh: I know what I said._

 _Sam: -_- You're such a child. Grow up._

 _Josh: Never._

 _Sam: You're impossible lol. How does Friday sound? We could go to the homecoming game._

 _Josh: Did you just suggest what I think you suggested?_

 _Sam: I don't see you coming up with any ideas dummy._

 _Josh: Ouch, that hurt Sammy. Yo, what about we meet up at the Pink Pig?_

 _Sam: You do know that's a strip club, right? Also, did you really use the word yo? You're such a loser._

 _Josh: Takes one to know one._

 _Sam: Enough with the stupid one-liners already! This conversation has gone way longer that what it was supposed to. Friday. Callbe's Skating Rink. Yes or no?_

 _Josh: You know I can't skate. Do you just want to see me fall and bust my ass?_

 _Sam: I'll take that as a yes. Are you allowed to drive? Or did mommy take wittle Joshie's wicense?_

 _Josh: No. The doctor took away wittle Joshie's wicense. Also, why the hell are you texting me now? I've been out of Lambrook for months._

 _Sam: Two reasons. One: Your mom didn't call but a few days ago. And two: even if I did have your number, I would've wanted to make sure you was stable enough before asking you to go somewhere with me._

 _Josh: How sweet, Sammy. I knew you loved me._

 _Sam: More like I pity you._

 _Josh. Ouch. You're really bringing the insults today. So, Friday? At Callbe's Skating Rink? Then we can go to the Pink Pig?_

 _Sam: Lemme think. NO. Alright, have your mom drop you off at around noon. Tell her I'll bring you back. I'm sure she'll be glad to hear you're actually leaving the house to have some fun for once._

 _Josh: I leave my house to have fun all the time._

 _Sam: Whatever you say. Anyways, I gotta go run some errands. See you then._

 _Josh: Adios amigo._

The conversation ended and Josh found himself in an interesting place. He couldn't even remember the last time he actually went out and enjoyed himself. And even though he couldn't skate, and would probably get a concussion, the fact that Sam called him was absolutely baffling. _After everything I did . . ._ he thought solemnly to himself as he got out of bed. So much for sleeping the day away. Now his mind was preoccupied with a certain blonde.

He left his room and headed down the stairs without changing out of his sleepwear. He looked over the railing as he came down and could see his mom in the kitchen fixing a blueberry and kale smoothie. It was all a part of her so called diet. The only time Josh ever dieted was when he ordered that diet coke from Applebee's several summers ago. And it was then he decided he would never drink another diet soda again.

His mom must've heard him coming down the stairs because she turned around. "You didn't sleep long. Is everything okay?" Josh couldn't believe that she had the audacity to just stand there as if she had no clue about Sam.

"I had an interesting phone conversation," he said dryly, sitting on the bar stool several feet from the blender and where his mom stood. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, right, mom?"

"I'm sorry, honey," she replied, but Josh could hear the unavoidable laughter in her tone. "I have no clue what you're talking about. Who called you? Was it—"

"You know who it was," he interrupted. "Sam-I-Am. Why didn't you tell me that you gave her my number? It's not like I would've been mad or anything. And why didn't you tell me you called her?"

"I would've," she began, failing to sound convincing, "but she told me not to. She wanted it to be a surprise when you got the text. And plus, she called me. I didn't call her."

"Wait, what?" His mind immediately went back in time to the phone conversation, right to the point where Sam had lied to him about his mom calling her first. _Oh, Sammy, Sammy,_ he thought, _why must you lie to me?_ He felt bad for how he'd treated his mom, who was just trying to make a smoothie in peace, and so he apologized. "Sorry about that. It was just, uh, some misinformation. It's nothing to worry about." He paused for a moment, thinking on how he could ask her to drop him off so he and Sam could go skating. When she returned to the blender, pushing the settings to mix, Josh slid out of the bar stool and leaned his body over the counter. "Sam wants to know if I can go skating with her Friday."

The blender was being a total asshole with its mega-loud, mega-annoying grinding sound. It was so loud that his mom didn't even hear him. "Mom!" Josh shouted angrily. She turned around like nothing was the matter and went to grab a cup from the cabinet beside the fridge.

"I'm listening," she hummed, reaching up and pulling out a medium sized plastic cup. Josh watched the green chunky liquid pour from the blender with absolute horror. It smelt like celery. He had to pinch his nose to avoid throwing up.

"Gross!" he cried. His mom just laughed and enjoyed watching his face shrivel up when she raised the cup slowly to her mouth, acting as if it was filled with dead rats, and began to drink it. She sucked it down loudly, and Josh could hear it as it slimed down her throat. It had to be the single most horrid thing he'd ever seen. Even the wendigos themselves would shake in fear from the beast which was his mother. He turned away from the sight, feeling the awful sensation in his stomach, and tried putting the subject back onto what he'd originally been talking about. "Sam asked me if I wanted to go skating with her Friday. Can you take me?"

Using her sweater's sleeve, his mom wiped her mouth and put the poisonous liquid down. A small smile surfaced on her face. She was glad to hear that they were already making plans.

"It'll be good for him," she remembered her and Sam's talk on the phone the previous week. "I know he regrets what happened on the mountain. Last night I heard him screaming in his room. I ran in there to see what was going on and he told me he felt a hand grab his leg. Don't tell him I told you that. He'd never forgive me. I've just been so worried about him. He never leaves his room, and he's been very hateful towards me and his dad. I just about gave up hope before you called. I have no one else to turn to. He always seemed happier when you were around, maybe you can help him? I really think all he needs is a close friend. You know, for moral support. He's the best son I could've ever asked for, and it hurts me to see him suffering." The tears were making their way to her eyes. "I found him in his room a few days ago cutting his hands with his father's knife. He told us he was trying to use blood magic to summon the demons out of him. We didn't take him to the hospital, thank God, but it scared me so much. I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry." She sobbed. "I didn't mean to burden you with all of this."

"Oh, don't worry about it, sweetie." The pain Sam heard in Mrs. Washington's voice almost made her want to go over there right then to give her a hug. "You're not burdening me with anything. I'm here for you and Josh. All you have to do is call. What's his new number? I'll be sure to call him sometime during the week."

Mrs. Washington stifled a few sniffles. Her face was soiled from her tears, and so she used a small wash rag to wipe them away. Putting herself back together, she cleared her throat of the mucus. "Thank you so much, Samantha," was all she could say without crying again. "I know Josh will appreciate it. If you're ready for it, his number is. . . ."

And thus was their conversation. It ended with a few heartfelt goodbyes and Sam promising to call Josh up within a week, which, by the evidence on his baffled yet excited expression, she'd been true to her word. Maybe a little _too_ true as far as Josh was concerned. He still couldn't wrap his head around the crazy notion that Sam still wanted to be associated with him. He'd been staring blankly at the kale infested blender and hadn't been paying much attention to his mom at all.

"Josh," he heard her say finally. "Did you hear me?" He turned his head and saw that she had both her hands on her hips.

"Sorry," he apologized, though his mind was obviously on something else. "I was just thinking . . . about something." He could see his mom's impatience glaring at him.

"I swear you're just like your father. You really need to work on your listening skills." Whether that was an insult or a compliment, Josh hardly cared. "I told you: yes." She put a lot of emphasis on the word "yes" so maybe he would hear her the second time around. "What time should I drop you off? I'm guessing you guys are going to Callbe's? Or is it somewhere else?"

"Nah, it's Callbe's," he replied quickly. "And Sam said she'd be there to meet us at about noon."

"What time is noon?"

Josh shrugged. "I don't know. She wasn't specific. I'm guessing around twelve thirty." He was about to go on to something else, but remembered what Sam had told him about driving him home. "Oh, yeah, don't worry about picking me up. Sam's gonna bring me home. We've got it all lined up." He smirked, expecting his mom to be cool with it, but realized he was mistaken when a deep frown burrowed onto her face.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked, concerned. "You haven't been out of the hospital for long and—"

"I've been out for at least four months!" he chimed in, a little flustered. "Don't worry about me. I promise I'll be fine. You can trust Sam." He tightened his lips. "She's a very sophisticated and mature young woman." The sarcasm laid heavily on his throat. "She'll make a man out of me yet."

Mrs. Washington rolled her eyes. "What am I going to do with you? I swear," she looked at her son like any proud mother would, "you're looking more and more like Bob every day. Sam definitely has good taste." She noticed the ninja turtle pajama bottoms he was wearing and couldn't help but to chuckle. "I can't believe you've kept those for so long."

"I can't believe I still fit into them. I was such a fatty back then." The memories of grade school came back to haunt him. His family was rich, but it still couldn't keep him from being a butterball for all those years.

"You wasn't fat," his mom argued, but, like always, she barely sounded convincing. "You were adorable, and you know you were. All the girls loved you."

Josh blushed a deep blue. "Mom," he groaned childishly, "you know that's not true. I looked like the real life Pillsbury Doughboy. Don't you remember?"

They just laughed and laughed, and, for once, Josh felt as if the world was alright. Maybe, just maybe, the time for grief was coming to a close. And, maybe, just maybe, reuniting with Sam would be the start of something new. 'Cause everyone deserved a second chance. Right?

Later that night Josh laid awake in bed. He could hear his father's snoring from across the hall. "It's like trying to sleep in the belly of a whale," he remembered his mom explaining to him one time as a way to describe her husband's snoring. Chuckling quietly to himself, Josh rolled over on his side and grabbed his phone from the dresser. He glanced at the clock. It was fifteen past eleven. _I wonder if Sam is still up,_ he thought. _Should I text her and see?_ He wasn't too sure. In truth, she probably wouldn't have cared, but he didn't want to seem overbearing, so he ultimately decided against it and instead slipped on his headphones. He scrolled through Spotify until arriving to the song he'd been trying to listen to all day, and, much to his relief, there was no Sam to interrupt it. At least until halfway through the song.

 _Sam: Still up?_

Josh sighed.

 _Josh: Nope._

 _Sam: C'mon cut it out. I'm just calling to check on you._

 _Josh; You lied to me._

 _Sam: About what?_

 _Josh: About getting a call from my mom. I know it was you who called._

 _Sam: Goddamn it! Now I have to move states. Fuck!_

 _Josh: Good. Get as far away from me as you possibly can. I'd recommend Antarctica. You don't have to worry about the weather. It'll freeze your tits off all day every day._

 _Sam: You're gonna have to take me to dinner first if you're gonna be talking about my titties._

 _Josh: Interesting proposal. How does lamb chops sound to you?_

 _Sam: Fuck you, dude._

 _Josh: You wish. What was it Emily said to Jessica at the lodge? You couldn't buy a moldy loaf of bread with your skanky ass?_

 _Sam: I dunno. Lol. That sounds like something Emily would say._

 _Josh: Might've been Jessica._

 _Sam: Who cares?_

 _Josh: Please, don't act like you don't like juicy gossip, Ms. Cheerleader._

 _Sam: oooh. It's on now ass-eater. I'm gonna laugh when you fall on your face when we're skating. And who knows, maybe my foot might slip and accidentally trip you._

 _Josh: If I go down, you're coming with me._

 _Sam: Good luck catching me fat-ass._

 _Josh: I'm a fatass now? hmm I think I'll buy a nice, big, delicious pizza for us. Smothered in garlic, fifty kinds of cheeses, ham, pepperoni, more ham, hamburger meat, have I mentioned pepperoni? And I'm gonna watch you eat it all._

 _Sam: I'd rather die. But, hey, since we're talking about food, how does celery and diet coke sound?_

 _Josh: You wouldn't..._

 _Sam: Try me._

 _Josh: Is this you trying to get back at me for chasing your toweled ass around the lodge?_

No response.

 _Josh: Sam? Hello?_

A few minutes passed and by that time Josh was sitting up in his bed with his back against the wall. He stared at the message box on his phone but Sam never texted back.

 _Josh: Did I say something? Sam?_

The silence was deafening. Why wasn't she responding? Many scenarios began to spin inside his head. Someone must've broke into her house. No. No. Somebody kidnapped her. No. Maybe—

 _Sam: Listen. Never mention what happened on that mountain again._

A pause followed.

 _Sam: I'm going to sleep. I'll see you Friday._

After reading it, he didn't dare text her back. Dreadful shame ravaged his mind for the rest of the night. He laid back down and replayed the song he'd been so desperately trying to listen to. He hummed the verses and eventually started to sing softly. But there wasn't a song in the world that could make him feel any better. No matter what, it seemed like he could never escape from his past. The scars were still fresh on his skin, and he feared they'd never go away.

Like many times before, it was nothing new that Josh was unable to sleep. During his months at Lambrook he had stayed up for several days and nights tossing and turning, trying to cope with the hell inside his mind. Eventually, the doctors had to inject him with sedatives. His peers called it booty juice. Which was a freakin' hilarious name; but it wasn't so hilarious when they forced you on the ground and stuck you in the ass with it. His butt was sore for several weeks after leaving. His mother was there to pick him up. She was his savior—even went so far as to buy him Longhorn's on the way home. Good memories, but, alas, those good memories were few and far between.

He quietly made his way down the stairs with his phone as his flashlight. The house was pitch black and it gave Josh a horrible sense of paranoia and goosebumps. It reminded him of the mines. He scrambled to the living room's light switch, flipped it, and let out a sigh of relief. Nobody had broken in. Thank God. Though he did see an orange little feline licking its paw on the couch. Josh smiled and sat down beside it. The cat meowed and purred, its soft tail touching his nose as the cute creature rubbed against his side.

The phone was still in his hands and for some reason he had the sudden urge to call Sam. He wanted to apologize to her for what he said, but was afraid she might cancel their plans if he kept pestering her. All he could really do was wait for tomorrow—Thursday—and hope that then would have served as the appropriate length of time before he texted her again. But that was easier said than done. It had seemed like an eternity since the last time he communicated with someone other than his parents and doctors. And he never realized how alone and isolated he truly was until this morning. _Thanks Sam,_ he thought sarcastically. _You've made me see how shitty my life is. Oh, I'm definitely buying you that cheese lover, triple stuffed pizza._

Tonight was going to be a long night.

After giving his cat the belly rub treatment, Josh tiptoed over to the movie shelf beside his mom's ridiculous diet books. But that didn't stop him from accidentally scanning over one of the funniest book titles in the history of book titles. _The Pocket Book of Boners._ "Oh. My. God." He had to cup his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. "What the hell are you reading mom?" All sorts of crazy images started to come into his head. _I gotta tell Sam about this,_ he decided. He didn't bother to read the content inside however, the cover alone was enough for him, and instead went for the Blu-Ray copy of: _I Love You Beth Cooper._ "This movie is so shitty," he laughed to himself, opening the box, "but so good at the same time." He popped it into the Blu-Ray player and went off into the kitchen to fix himself a bowl of popcorn.

When he returned, the movie had already started. "Shit." He turned off the light and plopped down on the sofa. He reared back and stretched out his legs. Sometime during the movie he threw a handful of popcorn at the screen. "What a fuckin' dork! Goddamn Hayden Panettiere is hot-hot-hot. Wait, hold the phone," he thought about Sam and how similar the two girls looked. It weirded him out. He violently shook the thoughts out of his head and continued watching the movie without any more outbursts.

The movie ended, and Josh, at long last, had passed out. The popcorn bowl slowly slid down from his stomach and onto the floor. Just like his father, Josh was cursed with an awful snore. His mom came down to see what all the ruckus was while in her pink slippers and gown. She smiled when she saw that it wasn't a burglar, but her baby boy sleeping peacefully on the couch. Quietly, she reached down and picked up the bowl, cleaning up the popcorn as well. Afterwards, she turned off the television and brought Josh some cover. He fumbled around for a bit, mumbling in his sleep, but eventually settled back down. It would take a bomb to wake him up.

"Goodnight, little Joshua," she whispered as she lightly kissed his forehead and rubbed his cheek. "Sweet dreams." Nothing else was spoken that night in the Washington's household as Mrs. Washington returned to her room and laid beside her husband. Closing her eyes, she dreamed of her family, dreamed of a time when they weren't so broken, when Hannah and Beth were still alive, and it was in her dream that she found solace.

* * *

 _ **November 11**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **Sam**_

The cold autumn rain fell like shards of glass hitting the sidewalk. Thunder rolled across the gray clouds above. A chilly wind swept through the streets where Sam could be seen standing alone beneath a bus stop. She counted the droplets that dotted the pavement. One. Two. Three . . .

Cars zoomed by her on the road. All of them going at least fifty. Luckily, there weren't many mud puddles around, so she didn't have to worry about some truck's tires spitting the nasty stuff all over her. No. Today was a good rain. A beautiful rain if she wasn't standing in it. She adjusted her Nike jacket to a more comfortable position and reached into her pocket, pulling out a small scratch of paper. Written on it was the address: 3401 Parkway Drive, apartment #106.

Chris. She hadn't seen him in such a long time. How many months had it been? Three? Four? Exactly when hardly mattered to her. After what happened on the mountain, and after Josh was put into the hospital, their relationship had steadily grown closer. You could say that they were borderline best friends. She'd invited him and Ashley to a small get-together that her family was having. She had also invited Matt and Emily, but, like she expected, they never showed up. Emily was probably still pretty sour about the whole Mike pointing a gun at her thing. Sam couldn't blame her. She'd be pissed too. But the weird thing was was that nobody had seen or heard from Mike and Jessica for nearly five months.

"I went over to Mike's yesterday," Chris told Sam a month before the get-together. "Nobody answered. I'm not the biggest fan of Mike, but I'm kinda worried."

Since that talk between them, the mysterious disappearance of their two friends became even more distressing. Sam believed they just wanted to be left alone. To forget the night that haunted them all. But Chris thought differently. He explained to Sam on several occasions his wacky, outlandish theories, ranging from them being kidnapped by the CIA to being abducted by aliens. Which both ideas were absolutely preposterous; however, it did lead Sam to draw her own strange conclusions. Maybe, they were magically changed into pigs by an an evil witch and then sold to a pork farm. Of course, she never mentioned this to Chris, because he'd probably go and check every pig farm from New York to Kansas until he found two hogs that looked identical to Jess and Mike. True, it would've been hilarious, but in very bad taste on her part.

Just like how the bus running late was in very bad taste. Impatiently, she rolled up her jacket's sleeve and tapped on her watch. _C'mon, hurry up._ It read ten in the morning; five minutes past the bus's scheduled arrival time. Angry thoughts of cussing out the bus driver started to fester inside her head. And as she continued to stand there in the rain, with her arms crossed, and her pocketbook strapped over her left shoulder, she noticed a bright yellow set of headlights break through the cold, misty, November fog.

The bus came to a slow halt. Excitedly, Sam shoved the piece of paper back into her pocket. But before she could board, she had to wait for a group of young teenagers to get off. One of the boys in the group, a tall, handsome young thing, looked at her and smiled bravely. Sam returned his smile with her own, thinking about how much he reminded her of Mike. In fact, seeing all of those kids together reminded her of her own group of friends. It was almost like looking into a mirror. A shallow, blurry, deceitful mirror.

"Are you getting on or not?" croaked the old toad serving as the bus driver. The man was fat like a bloated puffer fish and smelt like piss water. His nose took up the majority of his face, and a big, slimy wart was placed right at the tip of it. Sam couldn't believe how ugly the old man was, and her staring almost got her into serious trouble. "What are you looking at? Take your seat. I ain't got all day," he growled. She could smell the booze and tobacco on his breath from several yards away.

 _Okay,_ she thought to herself, _I'm definitely not taking the front seat._ There had to be at least seventy people occupying the bus, most of them were standing up with their bags down at their feet. Sam gripped the strap of her pocketbook tightly and maneuvered her way in between as many people as she could. "Excuse me. Sorry," she repeated many times. A man grunted angrily when she accidentally drilled her elbow into his stomach as she tried slipping past him and some chubby woman wearing a strange combination of dark blue lipstick and red mascara.

A brief moment passed where Sam felt extremely claustrophobic. The bus was so loud that she almost didn't hear her phone going off as she found a seat beside a young girl. They nodded respectfully at one another. Girls had to stick together, right? Especially on an overcrowded bus.

Once she was finally settled in, and her pocketbook was securely on her lap, Sam took out her cellphone. Her eyes widened when she saw the name of who was texting her. Josh. An unavoidable pang of regret rose inside her stomach. She hated herself for how she'd treated him last night; it hadn't been his intent to upset her like he did, but, honestly, she just wasn't ready to joke or even talk about what happened on the mountain. Those terrible memories were buried deep beneath the gravel of Sam's brain, locked away, never to be rediscovered.

 _Josh: Sam-I-Am! How are you? Hope I didn't wake you up._

Silently, Sam smiled to herself. It was obvious he was trying desperately to make up for upsetting her so much last night, making the pang rolling around her bowels tighten until it grew into pure guilt. Poor, Josh. He was working so hard to make ends meet, and she could tell. She looked around at all the faces surrounding her.

 _Sam: Nah, man, you didn't. You just caught me in a tight place. Literally._

 _Josh: Uh huh. I'm not going to ask. Anyways, after you headed to bed, I went downstairs to the living room to watch a movie, and I accidentally came across one of my mom's books. Guess what the title was? It's so fucking funny._

 _Sam: Lemme think. Was it The Pocket Book Of Boners?_

 _Josh: How the fuck did you know? Are you stalking me, Sam-I-Am? Because if you are I'll be sure to leave my window open for you. Just know that I sleep in the nude._

 _Sam: Too much information. And no, I'm not stalking you, I gave her that book several years ago. Well, actually I gave it to Hannah, but your mom must've kept it._

 _Josh: What? How couldn't I have known about that? Well, shit. That spoils everything! Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn._

 _Sam: Lol. You're ridiculous. Look, I'm on the bus right now, and it's hard enough having to deal with all these people. Do you think we can talk later? In a couple of hours, maybe?_

 _Josh: Of course, no problem. Sorry, I didn't know. I hate public transport. It's the fucking worse. Good luck, Sam, and may God have mercy on your soul. Mwahahahaha!_

The conversation ended on a rather good note. Sam was glad to see Josh attempting to be social, even if it was only with her for now. She hoped someday soon he would be willing to come with her to see Chris. They were best friends after all, and Sam fully believed that they could restore their friendship with a few spoken words and hugs—well, maybe not hugs. Man hugs.

It appeared as if the rain wasn't going to stop. After the girl sitting with her got off, Sam quickly slid over to the window and looked outside. From bus stop to bus stop, she watched as people carrying umbrellas scuttled away quickly into their apartments and homes. And other than the few bright headlights in the distance, it was nearly impossible for anyone to see anything that was more than thirty feet away. The white fog swallowed every inch of the city, reminding Sam of her favorite horror movie and video game: Silent Hill. She wondered if anyone on her bus thought the same.

They didn't.

In the time it took for her to arrive to her designated location, 3401 Parkway Drive, the majority of the bus-goers had already left. It was only her, an older woman sitting directly behind the bus driver, Sam figured she was flirting with him—gross—and a handful of well dressed men. Weird that they were taking a bus home. Their suits were so well kept and clean you'd think they'd be driving Ferrari's and banging porn stars. Looks could be deceiving, she guessed. But she didn't have to guess for long, because when the bus stopped, she bolted down the aisle without speaking to a soul, and got out as fast as she'd gotten in. _Note to self,_ she thought as the bus drove away into the gloom. _N_ _ever take public transportation again._

Walking in the blistering cold rain wasn't her exact idea of "fun," but she promised Chris that she'd come visit him and Ashley today, and by goodness, she was just gonna have to deal. Luckily, she had tucked away a small umbrella in her pocketbook before leaving her house, though she believed it wouldn't put up much of a fight against the heavy wind. God must've enjoyed making things difficult for her. He was the all mighty douchebag according to Josh.

She scrambled around inside her bag until she felt her hand on the umbrella's handle. She pulled it out, opened it, looked both ways, and walked across the street. Just like she'd thought, the wind sent hundreds of stinging droplets into her eyes. She batted her eyelashes fiercely, hoping to combat the storm, but, of course, it didn't help one bit. Chris owed her big time after this.

Relief came when she saw the large apartment complex in the fast approaching distance. The red and black buildings were like beacons of hope in a world consumed in a shivering mist. She wanted to break into a sprint, but first she had to get through the green gate surrounding the area. A long line of cars waited to be allowed in on the far left—a woman could be seen sitting in a small booth, pressing buttons that opened and closed the gate. Beyond that were endless rows of nicely trimmed trees and hedges.

Chris and Ashley definitely had moved up in the world, and Sam was shockingly proud of them for it. She'd half expected them to be living in a broken down part of town, low on income, and barely hanging in there. But like she'd figured out long ago, you never knew what's what until you've seen it with your own eyes. And no case was truer than with those two.

Sam greeted the woman at the booth with a smile and a warm, "Hello. How are you? I'm here to see a friend of mine. Christopher Hartley? Um. He told me he lives here." The woman stared at her blankly. The fat beneath her chin reminded Sam of a plump snail. Awkwardly, Sam reached into her pocket, pulling out the piece of paper. "Um. 3401 Parkway Drive, apartment one hundred and six?"

"Yeah," the old cow grunted, smacking on her gum. Did this woman always look so grumpy? Her red lipstick was almost as distracting as the fat rolls engulfing her neck. "Go on in." The more she talked, the more she started to sound like someone who'd been smoking cigarettes for the past sixty years.

After using her sausage-sized finger to press the green button on the control panel in front of her, a tiny red light shot on, and the gate slowly pushed open backwards, allowing Sam, who stood on the sidewalk, clearance. "Um." Sam looked back at the obese booth keeper. "Thank you, Mrs—"

"Abigail," she croaked. Could she and the bus driver with the big nose possibly have been brother and sister? They had so many resemblances that it was downright frightening. Sam did the only thing she could do in a time like this, and that was nod her head and continue forward.

It was a happy day when she finally reached the first apartment building. She headed up the stairs and stepped onto a long balcony, where a roof was securely above her head. Along this row were at least fifteen doors, each one led into somebody's home. After returning her umbrella back into her pocketbook, Sam started counting the numbers on every door she passed by.

One hundred and three. One hundred and four. One hundred and five. One hundred and six.

Sam checked the paper again just to make sure she was at the right place. She was. For a moment there she needed to gather herself. It'd been months since she last saw Chris's face. Hundreds of thoughts rushed to her mind, all of them asking a similar question: Had he changed? Gritting her teeth, she lightly tapped on the door with her knuckles. "Chris," she said loud enough for anyone inside to hear. "It's me, Sam. Chris?" She knocked a few extra times. The warm sensation of anxiety rushed to her face, and her chest felt ready to burst. _Why am I so worked up?_ she thought. _I'm sure he hasn't changed at all. I'm sure—"_

The door opened.

* * *

 _ **November 11**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **Mrs. Melinda Washington**_

There were two days that Mrs. Washington could say were the scariest and worst days of her entire life. The first one happened two and half years ago. A day that obliterated the foundations of everything she thought she knew. It was as if all those years before no longer mattered. All the dreams, all the hopes, died with her two beautiful daughters. The only thing left to wake after the destruction was a disassembled, broken family. The words that used to describe the Washington household were: joy, life, and love. But now, after many hard days and nights, the only words left in the aftermath were: misery, death, and hate. That was all. What was light turned into darkness. What was happiness turned into merciless pain. And Mrs. Washington knew that her son, Josh, blamed himself for every bit of it. Her little boy, her pride and joy, was falling apart before her very eyes, and she could do nothing. Nothing.

Then came the second day, not so far from the first. Merely a year after. When she received the call that the lodge had blown up and only Josh's friends made it out, Melinda, already broken, fell to her knees and cried—moaned as if she'd been shot through the stomach. Her husband rushed from the living room to see what was the matter, but his wife could only gurgle on the tears in her throat. He picked up the phone; the officer was still on the other line.

Desperate and scared, Josh's father shouted, "What the hell is going on? Who are you?"

"Mr. Washington?" came the calm voice on the line. "This is the Edmonton Police Department, we're calling this morning to inform you about an incident on one of your properties. Reports coming in say that the lodge at the base of Mount Washington has been destroyed by unknown causes. Information is still coming in. As it currently stands, only seven teenagers have been found. They are receiving helicopter transport. Their names are Samantha Giddings, Chris Hartley, Ashley Brown, Michael Munroe, Jessica Riley, Emily Davis, and Matthew Taylor. We're sorry—"

"What about my son!" Josh's father interrupted by shouting. "Joshua Washington! Tell me he's alright!"

"We're sorry to inform you, Mr. Washington," the cop went on, "but there haven't been any traces of your son anywhere. We have investigators right now on the scene who will be conducting a search on the ground, and helicopters will be provided for aerial support." The cop paused, waiting for Bob Washington to say something, anything, but all that was heard through the line was Mrs. Washington's wailing. "Mr. Washington?" the cop tried.

"Yes? I'm sorry, it's just . . ." Bob had to keep himself from crying. "It's just a lot to deal with right now. Please, officer, find my son. I can't lose him. Not like this. Please."

In that moment, there was an exchange of sympathy going from one man to the other. The cop, whose name was unknown, a cop simply doing his job, spoke to the silently sobbing Bob in a tone that could make even a blind man see. It was uncompromising yet compassionate all in one voice. "I will do everything in my power to find your boy. I promise you. I will use every man, dog, and chopper that I can get. I _will_ find your son." It was unscripted, something cops weren't supposed to say. All Bob could really do was thank him before hanging up.

For the next three days, Mr. and Mrs. Washington never left their house. They received some gifts from the actors Bob had come to know through his work as a movie director. He sent each of them a text saying he was okay and even went so far as to call a few. The conversations weren't much though. Just a whole ton of thank you's from Josh's dad, and several, "You're in my prayers," from the actors. He appreciated their sentiments, but none of it helped him feel any better. That was, at least, until he received a phone call one night from the police department.

"Mr. Washington?"

Bob knew that voice. It was the officer he'd spoken to on that same fateful morning. "Yes, that's me," he said shakily. All the days of searching had led up to that single moment, and Bob was terrified.

"This is Sergeant Hancock of the Edmonton Police Department," the officer continued. "We're calling tonight to inform you that we have found your son, Joshua Washington inside the mines of Blackwood Mountain. He's sustained multiple head injuries and a fractured ankle and is currently being transported via airlift to the region's central hospital." The sergeant paused to let everything sink in. "Go ahead. Tell your wife. Your son's gonna be okay." He didn't bother with the, "I told you so," the happy reaction of Bob and his wife carrying on in the background was enough for Hancock. It was all part of the job after all. No feeling in the world could top knowing you had brought a family together.

Weeks past with one thing leading to another, and Josh was finally given leave from the hospital. At least until the judge ordered he needed to be taken to Lambrook, with the notion that he'd be there for eight months instead of a measly two weeks. But after the hell he endured on the mountain, Josh made little fuss about it. Whatever happened in the mines, something his father noticed immediately upon seeing him, changed Josh. He wasn't the goofy, lovable kid he once was. What Bob saw in his son's eyes were both a calloused coldness and a detached confusion. Confusion about what exactly? His father did not know, and that might've been for the best—probably something that needed to be buried and forgotten for good.

Oh, if he only knew . . .

These were the types of flashbacks that played over and over inside Melinda's head. And every time her mind escaped back to them, the more she succumbed to isolation and darkness. She obviously knew how unhealthy her life had gotten; but after the grief of losing her daughters, and almost losing her son, her cluttered mind quickly became the unwilling host for the parasites that were her internal demons: agony and regret.

There were very few moments in her life she could recall being proud of. She'd married a wonderful man, raised a beautiful son, but everything cut out after that. Everything was put on hold—all her wishes, her desires—as she was left to face the cold, grim truth of Hannah's and Beth's fate. And it was too much for her to handle.

 _Melinda: Josh and I are at the grocery store. Is there anything you want to eat tonight?_

In the background, while his mom was busy texting his father, Josh took it upon himself to grab a handful of random junk food. Two boxes of Lunchables, a box of cotton-candy flavored yogurt, a bag of Doritos, and a pack of red Gatorade. How he was able to carry all that at once? Nobody knew.

"Josh," his mom said with a sigh, detailing her slight annoyance. "Please, put that crap back. How many times do I have to tell you?" She grabbed one of the boxes of Lunchables and waved it in the air angrily. "I don't want _this_ in my house. It's like you and your father don't give a damn about me or my diet." Like an angry carnivore, she forced all the junk back into Josh's hands, nearly causing him to lose his balance and fall down.

"Can I at least keep the Gatorade?" he asked convincingly. "It's not bad for you. Athletes drink it all the time; and it's better than Coke, right?" The fake sheepish grin playing on his face made his mom roll her eyes and shake her head.

"Fine," she detested. "But that's all you're getting. Don't ask for anything else."

"I won't. Promise," he assured.

Once Josh restored the food items back to their original spots, Melinda led them over to the dairy isle, where entire shelves were filled with all sorts of milks. Soy milk, coconut milk, almond milk, peanut milk, rice milk, milk milk—just endless rows as far as the eye could see. And as she was deciding on which kind to buy, her phone went off inside her pocketbook. Josh took it out and gave it to her. Mrs. Washington dropped the gallon of almond milk into the buggy and opened the message she originally thought was a reply from her husband, but was surprised to see that it was actually Sam.

She read the text and then looked over at Josh who was completely unaware of the situation. The message itself wasn't some kind of mind boggling revelation, but it did leave Mrs. Washington a little unsettled at first. It read:

 _Sam: There's something important I need to tell you, and, please, don't tell Josh. Not yet anyways. It's about Chris._

 _Melinda: What is it, Samantha? Is everything okay?_

 _Sam: Yeah, everything's fine. Didn't mean to scare you, but I'm over at Chris's apartment right now, and he told me he's leaving in March to go to Parris Island._

 _Melinda: What? Are you sure?_

 _Sam: One hundred percent. He shaved his head and everything. It's kinda creepy. Lol. I never imagined in a thousand years he'd join the military. I was going to tell Josh, but Chris swore up and down at me not to. I probably shouldn't even be telling you. You're not going to tell him are you? Chris will kill me if he finds out..._

 _Melinda: Why doesn't he want Josh to know?_

 _Sam: I'm not totally sure. He just told me not to tell him and left it at that. I think he's planning on telling Josh himself._

 _Melinda: When?_

 _Sam: Dunno. I'll try to keep you updated as best as I can and talk to you later. Also, drive safe going home. It's raining cats and dogs out there._

After the flow of messages stopped, Mrs. Washington spent the remainder of her time in the store talking with Josh about anything to keep her distracted off of what Sam had told her. It wasn't until they were in line being checked out did her phone go off again.

 _Bob: Spaghetti sounds good._

Out of simple spite for her husband's late reply, she texted back:

 _Melinda: We're having tacos tonight. Deal with it._

 _Bob: Damn it._

* * *

 _ **November 11**_ _ **th**_ _ **Thursday 2016**_

 _ **Chris**_

He sat alone in front of the television, sucking on a fat, brown cigar, his feet propped up on the coffee table. The movie playing used to be one of his favorites: _Vantage Point._ A movie he remembered watching many years ago at Josh's house. It seemed only fitting that he watch it now as he waited for Sam's arrival.

Christopher Hartley, a name he thought about changing. He'd already changed everything else about himself: his clothes, his hair, he even bought a nice new pair of glasses. What was a name worth to him? Other than it being his birth name.

Since the incident, Chris had worked himself tirelessly into a life of strict discipline and integrity. Two traits he lacked for the majority of his life.

And as he sat there pondering, enjoying the taste of the tobacco between his teeth, Ashley stepped out from their bedroom wearing one of his shirts and a loose pair of gray sweatpants. Chris acted like he didn't even notice her as she passed by him to go into the kitchen and pour herself a glass of water.

"Chris!" she shouted, opening the freezer. She shifted through the ice trays and boxes of ice cream until she found a small bag of precooked, frozen sausage biscuits.

"Huh?" he asked, though his eyes never left the screen.

"I'm fixing breakfast. Are you hungry?" It wasn't the perfect breakfast, but it was breakfast nonetheless. And the last thing she wanted to do was go out into the rain and buy something from the store. Besides, she had to deal with enough people working as a part-time waitress at the local Outback. Couple that with going to college, and she was absolutely fine with staying home and being lazy—well, as lazy as she could be, living with Chris.

He literally lived and breathed the gym, and would often times take her along. Ashley enjoyed exercising, she stayed pretty slim, but Chris, on the other hand, took lifting weights and cardio to the extreme. It was all a part of his Marine boot camp preparation. And, honestly, after he shaved his head, Ashley felt that maybe he was taking things too far.

She understood how he wanted to move on with his life. To live and forget about what happened on the mountain, but a part of her believed what he was doing wasn't for recovery, but instead a deceptive attempt to push down all his rage until it disappeared. To ultimately become so cold and distant that he no longer harbored feelings about anything or anyone. Even her. Even the love of his life.

The space between them grew colder and colder as days turned into months. How Ashley longed to be cuddled inside his warm embrace again. Not some hard outer shell he created to protect himself from the emotions that came with tragedy and hurt. All Ashley truly wanted was for Chris to be happy, to be the person she used to know. The person she loved.

He never answered her question, so she sat down beside him on the couch after putting the biscuits into the oven. Hoping to invoke a reaction, she poked him hard in the side. The reaction she was expecting was for him to laugh, swoop her up, and kiss her. Sadly, that wasn't what happened.

"Damn it, Ash," he thundered. "What do you want?" The lips she'd kissed so many times before were now scowling at her, and the blue eyes she used to lose herself in were darkened and tainted with venom. What happened to her Chris? And who was this impostor?

His outburst caused her to flinch. He wouldn't hit her. Right? The way he was treating her, like an owner scolding his dog, made her unsure. "Sorry," she muttered. She didn't know whether to stay sitting next to him or to get up, go into their bedroom, close the door, and cry. But what would he say? If he walked in there and she was crying? The thought scared her.

A silence ensued between them for several moments. The smoke from Chris's cigar formed a large creamy cloud over them. Ashley coughed and swatted at the toxic fumes filling her lungs. "Chris! Can you please take you and your cancer stick outside?" The words fell from her mouth angrier than what she'd wanted, but she stood by them, huffing and puffing with her arms crossed.

"Give me the goddamn ashtray," he demanded. Plucking the cigar from his mouth, he glared at Ashley, and then swiped the tray out of her hands. He took one last inhale before dousing the cigar and throwing it away into the trashcan. He sat back down and muttered not a single word.

"What's your damn problem?" was what she wanted to say, and she thought about saying it for a long time. But she couldn't muster up enough courage to do so. The deafening quiet and the beating of her own heart were going to have to suffice for now.

Fifteen minutes later and the movie finally rolled credits. Sam still hadn't shown up, and it was beginning to get under Chris's skin. "She's late," he repeated several times to himself and Ashley. One could easily sense the anger in his tone.

"I'm sure she's on her way. She's probably just having a hard time in the rain." Ashley tried calming him down a few notches. Really all she noticed on his face was his ever-present scowl—a look she'd become accustomed to, but being accustomed to it didn't make dealing with him during his bad moods any easier. Then again, Chris was constantly in a bad mood; and Ashley blamed it on one person. Joshua Washington.

"I doubt it," he scoffed. "People just don't give a shit about being on time any more." Ashley lovingly slid her arm under his, but he moved away. "I'm not in the mood, Ash," he told her dryly, and was about to say something else, when the timer for the biscuits started beeping.

Ashley jumped up from the couch like a spring. Thank goodness for food. She hurried to the kitchen and opened up the oven and pulled out the pan with a towel. She then grabbed a jar of jam from the pantry and slapped it onto two of biscuits and brought them to Chris on a plate.

"Thank you," he said, taking the plate and laying it down on the coffee table without ever glancing at his food. Ashley noticed the glint of contemplation in her boyfriend's eyes.

Growing steadily more concerned, she laid her hand on top of his and sat down beside him. Chris continued to stare forward into the blank television screen. The side of his mouth twitched, but that was the only movement she got from him. He appeared so indifferent to her touch that she had to ask: "Chris. Are you okay? What's wrong?"

His face remained expressionless. "I'm just thinking . . ." he started, but then stopped.

"Thinking about what?" Ashley leaned into him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Talk to me," she whispered. "I'm all ears." She used her fingernail to lightly trace over his knuckles.

"I'm just . . ." He sighed. Ashley squeezed his hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ that for the last couple of weeks my life has been a living hell." Chris ran his free hand through her hair. "I'm sorry," he said, kissing her forehead. "I know I haven't been fair to you. Sometimes I wonder if we made the right choice moving in together. I love you, Ashley. I love you so much, and I'm sorry that I'm not the man you deserve."

Warm tears were beckoning to roll down her face, but Ashley withheld them so Chris wouldn't feel guilty for making her cry. "I know, I know," she replied quietly. Somewhere past that hard outer shell still lived a child whose only wishes were to love and to be loved. "We don't have to talk if you don't want to. I just want you to know that I'm here for you." They locked eyes, and it was a moment she'd cherish forever.

"Always?" Chris asked sheepishly

Ashley kissed his neck. "Always."

They sat there in the quiet for what felt like an eternity, but Chris didn't mind. If Ashley promised that she would always be there for him, then the least he could do was be there for her when she needed him too. And by how he'd been treating her for the past few weeks, she needed him now more than ever. He scooped her up and brought her in close on his lap. She buried herself into his chest, her breathing soft and warm.

"I've missed this," she cooed, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. The sound of his heartbeat was like music to her ears. This was her Chris. This was the one she fell in love with. The kindest and most tenderhearted man she'd ever known.

Then came several loud knocks on the door, followed by Sam's voice.

"Shit," Chris groaned, but Ashley just laughed and patted his chest. Of all the . . .

"Some other time, lover boy," she joked and broke away from him, gathering up the cold, uneaten biscuits and tossing them into the microwave for later.

Meanwhile, Chris was busy checking himself in the mirror, making sure he looked presentable enough for their guest. But being that it was Sam, whether he looked presentable or not really didn't matter all that much. He was just glad that she actually came, even if she was thirty minutes late. Chris swore to himself that he would do right by Ashley and not blow a gasket over it.

They both greeted her at the door.

Ashley let out a pleasant gasp. "Sam!" she cried in the midst of hugging her. "It's so good to see you again." Chris stood in the background smiling.

 _Let the girls have their moment, that-a-boy Chris,_ he thought amusingly to himself. He had to admit Sam was looking good in her red hoodie, white shirt, and black running pants. She kinda reminded him of his old personal trainer, Amy, same color hair and everything.

Sam smiled back at him after finishing her hug with Ashley. "Wow, you two . . ." she began, losing words to describe her disbelief. She walked over to Chris and rubbed the top of his head. "What the hell happened to your hair?"

"I shaved it." Now Chris was laughing. "What do you think? I look like a real ladies' man." He winked over at Ashley whose only response was to roll her eyes. "So, how have you been, Sam?" he asked, but before she could answer, "Here, take a seat and relax for a bit" Chris turned to Ashley. "Ash, remember that case of wine coolers in the fridge?" She nodded. "Go get them for us. Are you okay with a little alcohol, Sam? It's one hundred percent vegan with no additives. Guaranteed."

Sam shrugged sitting down. "Sure, I'm cool with it. What flavor do you got?"

Chris looked back at Ashley who was searching through all the mess inside the refrigerator. "Ash," he called, "Sam wants to know what's what on those wine coolers."

"Erm, hold on a sec," she replied. They really needed to clean out their fridge. It was like a rat's paradise in there: old lumps of pizza, half eaten sandwiches . . . disgusting. It wasn't until she looked behind a big box of Yoohoos did she finally find their drinks. The case held only six glass bottles. Ashley scanned over the ingredients and flipped it over to the front side. "Says here it's apple-cider flavored. Huh. Interesting . . ." She took one for herself, opened it, and enjoyed a huge thirsty sip. Nodding with satisfaction, she took another one, "Catch!" and tossed it over to Chris.

He caught it and then offered it to Sam. "Here you go, milady. And may I say you look wonderful this morning."

"Charming as ever I see." Sam smiled. Five months of never visiting Chris and Ashley? What was she thinking? They were her favorite people, and it felt so good to be in their presence once again. If only Matt, Emily, Mike, Jess, and Josh were here too. The entire gang back in one room. Well, she could dream couldn't she?

Time flew by as they all three chatted up a storm. However, one thing in particular truly stuck with Sam; and that was when Chris told her about him signing up with the Marine Corps, explaining to her that he was leaving mid-March.

Her mouth had hit the floor. "No, shit," she said flabbergasted by this new piece of information. Sam looked at Ashley who was just sitting there with not so much as an expression on her face. "Do you approve of this?" she went on to ask, taking another sip from her bottle. Apple-cider flavored wine coolers were the best, especially in a time of undeniable shock. Chris and the Marine Corps . . . Sam couldn't begin to process it. She squinted her eyes at him, trying to understand what his motives were. It was weird enough seeing him with a shaved head, but this was . . . it was hard to grasp.

Ashley shrugged and rested her hand on his thigh. "I was worried at first," she responded honestly, and a part of her still was. "But I trust him with all my heart, and I'll support whatever decision he makes."

"Well," said Sam, directing her statement to Chris, "I just hope you remember to write me—keep me updated on how things are going." She reflected upon herself for a moment, thinking carefully on how to word her next sentence. "So, um . . . I've been talking to Josh lately, and—" Chris's eyes darkened. "Erm. He seems like he's really trying to make up for what he did. I'm sure he'd appreciate it if—"

Chris raised his hand to insinuate silence. "Stop," he said, "I know what you're about to say." He sighed and rubbed his temples violently as if he had a migraine. "Look," he breathed, "it's been a hard couple of months for all of us. I should've been there for him when he got out in May, and I'm a shitty friend for that—but I'm not ready to come to terms with that part of my past just yet. I signed on with the Marine Corps to try and escape it." His tone was a serious one. "Don't tell him about me joining the military—don't tell him anything. I don't even want him to know you came here at all. I—"

Thunder suddenly roared from outside, followed by a gust of whistling wind and flashes of lightening. The rain clashed against the roof, sounding like a thousand little tacks hitting tin.

"Great," Sam grumbled. "Damned November weather. I'm not looking forward going back into _that._ " And by "that" she meant the storm. It was like a giant typhoon was coming in from the shores hundreds of miles away. Not something Sam was particularly excited about. In fact, she downright dreaded it.

"You can stay here and wait it out with us if you want to," Ashley proposed. "We've got movies and board games in case the power goes out. I bought these new cinnamon scented candles from Walmart the other day, and they're _amazing—_ we can set them all over the apartment, and turn on a little music from my phone. It'd be like when we were little, during sleepovers. Remember them, Sam?"

"How could I not? I'll never forget that one time—I think we were in elementary—when me, you, and Hannah, heard about the old haunted church on—what was the road's name? Um . . ."

"I think it was Patterson," remembered Ashley, thinking back to that cold Halloween night. "The one people said had a bunch of dead babies buried beneath it."

Sam scoffed in disgust. "People said that? We must've been one fucked up group of kids." Now seemed like a good time to have another drink as her mind explored the thought of children actually being buried beneath a dirt road.

Ashley must've felt the same way because she too sipped on her bottle. "Yeah, I remember us walking down to the church yard at like nine o'clock. Still can't believe Hannah's parents actually let us go trick-or-treating by ourselves. It sucks we never found any ghosts, or baby skulls for that matter." She glanced at Chris who was sitting next to her. His downcast gaze made him appear like his mind was on something completely different.

Worried, and a little curious, Ashley poked his leg. Almost as if he was in a trance, he shot back up from his silent glaring, and eyed around the room, acting like he'd suddenly woken up. "What are we talking about?" he asked, his expression confused.

"Dumb ass," Ashley joked. "You need to pay attention. We're talking about the abandoned church we used to go investigate when were in elementary school."

"Oh, that shitty old building? Man, me and Josh went there all the freakin' time, and we never found nothing. Talk about overly advertised bull crap. We wasted our fucking allowances on ghost tracking devices and who knows what else—half the stuff didn't work anyways." All he and Josh wanted to find there was at least one baby skull; hell, they would've taken a cat jumping out at them from the shadows—then they'd have _something_ to joke about. But, no, the entire "hauntedness" that place had was only a myth. And something he thought he'd never talk about again.

The rain didn't let up until quite later into the afternoon, when Ashley had to go and get ready for work. Sam spent the next couple of minutes texting Melinda about Chris's decision on joining the Marines (the texts we've already seen.) Afterwards, Ashley emerged from the bedroom wearing a rich coating of black pants, an expensive looking black button up shirt, and a pair of fancy black shoes.

Chris smiled upon seeing her with her red hair tied back in a ponytail. If there ever lived a woman who was so perfect, so undeniably gorgeous, it was Ashley, and Chris believed that with all his heart. The fact he was lucky enough to be with her baffled and excited him in every possible way. And for as long as he had her by his side, there was nothing in the world he couldn't accomplish. She was his lungs, and he was her heart.

"It was great seeing you guys again," Sam said as she headed toward the door. She listened as a soft cooing of wind rocked the tree branches outside back and forth. Light pitter-patter of raindrops danced on the concrete, and through the cracks from a nearby window, she felt a shift of chilly autumn air saying, "It's freezing outside!"

Ashley gave her one last hug. "Remember to come visit us whenever you want." It was like getting hugged by a grizzly bear. "You've got mine and Chris's number don't you?" she went on to ask after releasing Sam from her monster hug.

"Of course I do." Sam reached into her pocketbook and brought out her phone. Scrolling through all her contacts, she stopped when she saw Ashley's name. "Um, let's see . . . 947-762-6385?"

Ashley nodded. "Yep that's mine. What about Chris?"

"586-991-7797?"

"Yep," continued Ashley. "You got them. Give us a call or shoot us a text sometime. I work weekdays, three to eleven, in case I don't pick up right away." She turned to Chris who was also standing beside Sam in front of the door. "Lazybones over there works weekends at Planet Fitness."

"You're into lifting weights aren't you, Sam?" He decided then was the perfect time to interrupt. "I got just the thing for you. Be right back." He walked briskly into the kitchen and returned immediately with a small black card. On it was a phone number, email, fax number, and address. The enjoyment written on his face reminded her of a car salesman.

"Um . . ." What could she say? "Thank you. I guess." Sam hesitantly slid the card into her pocket, already having it in her mind that she wasn't going to waste money on a gym membership. She had weights at home, and, plus, last time she checked, running was free.

They said their final few goodbyes—thrown in were a few extra hugs—and as Sam opened the door and walked out, she heard Ashley telling her to be safe and to text her when she got home.

* * *

 _ **November 11**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **Sam**_

A concrete landscape swaddled in mud and streams of water laid before her as she stood once again at the bus stop. She'd made a mental note to never take public transport again, but she was way too exhausted to hike the several miles back home. Instead, she kept herself entertained by playing Candy Crush on her phone while she waited.

Headlights came and headlights went. Eventually, the bus arrived—thankfully the woman driving wasn't a freak of nature—and Sam boarded it half expecting herself to be lost in an ocean of sweaty people, but she was pleased when she was faced with only a dozen—most of them sitting in the back. After taking her seat in the third row, the sensation of her phone vibrating echoed through her purse leather.

 _You have received a new message._ Was what the notification read.

 _I wonder who it could be,_ she thought sarcastically _._ Of course she knew who it was. Josh had never been subtle about the amount of texts—or calls—he'd send out on a day-to-day basis, even before his sisters disappeared.

 _Josh: Sup, Sammy! How you doin' girl? I know I ask that every time I text you, but you gotta understand I'm not that great with conversation starters. Where you at?_

 _Sam: On the bus. Again. But there's a lot less people this time._

 _Josh: I thought you had a car? Or are vegans against the idea of polluting the air?_

 _Sam: My mom took it with her to work, and what's wrong with not wanting to pollute?_

 _Josh: Oh, Sammy, you have a lot to learn about the world. A lot to learn. I'll teach you some of it tomorrow during our date._

 _Sam: It's NOT a date. We're friends, Josh. And ONLY friends._

 _Josh: Keep telling yourself that. I'm your destiny, baby, ain't no shame in it._

 _Sam: The only destiny I have with you is my vegan boot going up your meat eating ass._

 _Josh: Wow, when did you become so violent, Sammy? I thought you were a pacifist._

 _Sam: You pick up a few things when your friend is a freak._

 _Josh: Ouch. More name calling? You're on a roll there, Emily._

 _Sam: Yeah right. You wish I was Emily. News flash Josh, no sane Asian woman would ever want you._

 _Josh: That's alright. All I need is you, babe. You are the wind beneath my wings. Cue Bette Midler._

 _Sam: You know that might've actually been charming if it wasn't coming from someone who still sleeps in his Batman undies._

 _Josh: Batman? Really? I thought you knew me better than that. My undies are devoted to my love and admiration for my favorite super hero in the whole entire world. Spiderman. Get it right, Samantha!_

 _Sam: Oh my mistake. How could I possibly forget that?_

 _Josh: It's probably because you're not getting enough protein for your brain to function properly. You are vegan after all._

 _Sam: Screw you._

 _Josh: That can be arranged._

 _Sam: Shut up._

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Expect more chapters soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning: This chapter touches on a very serious and sensitive topic.**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 2**

 _ **November 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Friday**_

 _ **Josh**_

Today was the day; and the excitement was simply radiating off of Josh as he prepared for his afternoon out with Sam. He spent a good portion of the morning taking a shower, shaving, and figuring out what to wear. Polo or no Polo? That was the question. He looked at the reflection of his bare chest from the mirror inside his closet. Hundreds of nice smelling, clean shirts were hanging on perfectly aligned racks. _Just pick something for fuck sake,_ he thought. _It's not that difficult._ Yes it was. It was very difficult. He'd been outside the social circle for so long, he forgot the meaning of social acceptability—clothes being one of the major factors.

Deep down he knew Sam probably wouldn't care what he wore, but he'd rather die than show up wearing something ridiculous. He wasn't an idiot; so, after deciding the answer was no Polo, he perused through his casual selection, stumbling on a shirt he thought he'd lost. His eyes lit up, and he held the shirt in his hands like it was the holy grail. "Perfect!" He rushed downstairs to his mom, who was fixing herself a small bowl of cereal, and gave her one of his ludicrously silly introductions. "Heh? What do you think?" He used his two index fingers to point at the sentence written across him in bold, black letters; something immediately told him that his mom wasn't quite as appreciative of his fashion sense like he was. And that "something" was disguised as the stupefied look on her face.

"What the hell are you wearing?" she asked, her eyes wider than tractor tires. "And where on Earth did you get that shirt? Josh! Go put that back! Are you kidding me? You're not wearing that! I—" She cupped her aching forehead with the crest of her hand, shaking her head, and looking down at the spoon she'd accidentally dropped on the floor.

Josh's smile transformed into a frown. What was the big fuss about? He wondered. It wasn't like he was wearing anything offensive or vulgar. In fact, he thought it was hilarious.

The shirt read: MY BALLS ITCH.

"I'm just being honest," he protested. "C'mon. I think Sam will love it."

"Josh," she said, "I'm not taking you if you're wearing that. You'll just have to call Sam and tell her you can't go because your balls itch." They shared a laugh, and Melinda returned to her cereal after fetching a fresh spoon from the dishwasher. She pointed up the stairs. "Go change. Now."

He threw up his hands in surrender. "Fine! Whatever. I'll go change." A couple of unidentifiable mumbles escaped his lips as he melodramatically stormed back up to his room, slamming the door for good measure. _Damn, Melinda,_ he thought. _Always ruining my fun. I guess I'll just wear a sweater._ He passed by his collared shirts and shivered. _No Polo. Never Polo._

The ride there wasn't much better. For some odd reason, Mrs. Washington was obsessed with one of the worst bands in existence. Josh didn't even consider them music. And his mom had every single album. Their constant wailing made him want to cut his ears off. What made it even worse was when Melinda began to sing along.

"Baby you light up my world like nobody else. The way you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed, but when you smile at the ground it ain't hard to tell; you don't know, oh, oh, you don't know you're beautiful!" The guitars blared out of the speakers like sharp, painful razor blades.

Torture. Pure torture. He felt a headache coming on. "Mom!" he shouted. "Can you turn it down?" The music was so obnoxiously loud that he couldn't hear the sound of his voice. "Mom!" he shouted a second time, stabbing the mute button with his finger angrily.

"You don't know, oh ,oh . . ." The music stopped, and Mrs, Washington fell out of her daze awkwardly, batting her eyelashes a few times, and said—though her voice sounded a bit off—"Oh, sorry, honey." Josh knew better than to buy into her innocent smile; she knew fully well what she was doing.

"Uh-huh," he said, crossing his arms. "Can you put on something we both like? I don't think I can take another minute of One Direction. 'Cause if I hear, "you don't know you're beautiful," one more time, I'm jumping out." He unlocked his door and reached for the car handle, acting as if he was going to leap out at any second.

Melinda grabbed his arm. "Don't you dare!" she scolded. "You'll ruin my new tires. Do you know how difficult it is to clean up brains?"

"How touching," said Josh, his expression sarcastically blank. "I'm glad you care so much about my well being. I'd never want to get blood on your precious car."

"Well," Melinda said, her smile growing, "I'm glad you see it my way. What would I tell the cops? That my son just waltzed right out without a second thought?"

Josh closed his eyes and leaned his car seat back. "Can you please just drive? And no more One Direction. I already got enough on my plate, and I don't need you making it worse." He finished his sentence off with a half baited: "Ma'am."

Traffic was minimal, and it only took a few minutes for them to arrive to the skating rink. Weird. The parking lot was a lot smaller than he remembered. So was the building. As a kid, he thought the world of this place; even though he never learned to skate. But, now, seeing it as an adult, he wondered how he ever saw it for more than what it really was. The place was run down and looked more like a warehouse than a place for skating. Above the doors, written in broken neon lights: Callbe's Skating Rink and Gift Shop. _More like Callbe's Whorehouse,_ he thought as they entered the parking lot.

Sam had been waiting for them on the hood of her 2012 Honda Civic. She watched as they pulled in beside her, and, upon seeing Josh, smiled and waved.

"Good morning, Samantha," said Mrs. Washington, rolling down the passenger window. "It's wonderful to see you again. Josh has been talking about you all morning." Josh shot his mom a critical glare.

"Oh, really?" Sam teased, resting her arms on the window sill.

"Er, that's not—" he grumbled. The loud beats protruding from his heart told him it was about ready to burst. She was so close. Too close. He needed an escape plan; so he did the only thing he knew to do, and that was to suddenly force open the door. But to his own stupidity, Sam flailed backwards as if she'd slipped on a banana peel, and slammed her head into the mirror. "I'm so sorry!" cried Josh.

"Ow!" Sam gritted her teeth and rubbed the top of her aching head. "It's okay," she groaned. "It's all okay. Don't worry about it." Clumsily, she took two steps back from Josh, her head still sore, but manageable—for the most part at least.

Strike one.

The situation went from awkward to downright creepy as the two of them just stood there staring at one another, neither having the slightest clue on what to say. Melinda, realizing that now was the time to leave, said, "Make sure he behaves, Samantha; and, please, drive safe." She then backed out of the parking space and drove away.

Silence.

"So . . ." Sam attempted to start some small talk, but Josh didn't appear to understand. "Um." Okay, how much more awkward could this possibly get? "How've you been? You look good. I like your sweater, it's fancy."

Josh remained dumbfounded until he realized she'd spoken to him. "Oh, this?" He pinched the fabric. "Yeah, I got it at the hospital for Christmas. It's kinda itchy though." He then used his left hand to scratch beneath his armpit, and sniffed his fingers with his nose. He glanced back up at Sam, whose face read disgust, and he realized he'd made a mistake.

Strike two.

As they headed inside, Josh, due to nerves, and due to simply not paying attention, went so far as to forgot to leave the door open, and instead slammed it right on Sam, who was just one step from entering. The first thing that connected with the glass was her nose, followed quickly by the rest of her body. If watched in slow motion, you could see every piece of skin nearly rip off. Horrified, Josh ran and grabbed her before she could tip over. "I'm so sorry." That was all he could say. Poor, Sam. Her entire face was red. All he wanted to do right then was to slap himself for being so careless.

"It's okay," she grunted painfully. "It doesn't hurt, really." She cupped her nose with one hand and rubbed her cheek with the other. Her eyes and mouth were contorted in a weird expression. Josh called it the face-hitting-the-door expression.

He chuckled. "At least you're still on two feet." Any more laughter soon died as Sam glared at him; there wasn't any telling what she was thinking during that moment. Josh assumed it had to do with strangling him.

Strike three; and they hadn't even put their skates on yet.

The music inside was almost as obnoxious as his mom singing along to One Direction. But the people seemed to be enjoying it, especially the couples who were making goo-goo eyes together. It made Josh want to puke. He was more interested in the arcade beside the rink; however, knowing that Sam hated video games, he had to regrettably scratch it off his list.

"I'm not sure about this," he said shyly, looking around the large arena. So many people. Josh kept his heartbeat in check, and he followed Sam closely to attain their skates. _Just keep calm,_ he repeated to himself. He knew something like this was going to happen. Huge numbers of people always stressed him out; and what made it even more stressful was having to act normal under the watchful eye of Samantha Giddings.

The person they were supposed to talk to for their skates was a young teenager—no more than sixteen years old—sporting thick framed glasses, a tattoo of a cross on his neck, and long reddish-brown hair. He definitely looked the part of a weed smoking, crack dealing, skater-punk—not that Josh was judging him or anything. It was the same kind of person Beth would hangout with on regular occasions; so, any negative bias was nonexistent.

"Welcome to Callbe's Skating Rink and Gift Shop. I'm Stanley," the skater-punk greeted, smiling to the best of his ability—though everything pointed to the assumption that what he really wanted to say was: "Good morning, now get the fuck out." Plus, his name was Stanley; how basic could you get?

"Good evening." Sam returned his cheerfulness with her own. Josh noticed the sudden intense focus the kid had on her breasts. Was "Stanley" even listening?

"Hey," Josh interrupted angrily, snapping his fingers. "Eyes up front, buddy." Upon hearing Josh's banter, the kid raised his head, his cheeks red from embarrassment, and his expression apologetic. He didn't say anything, but Josh knew he was sorry.

Sam however wasn't very happy about Josh coming to her rescue. She shot him a sharp glare, nudging her elbow into his side. He let out an "oof," and Sam followed up with: "Sorry about that, my friend doesn't get out much." She glared at him again. "Isn't that right, Josh?"

He frowned while "Stanley" smugly smirked. "Yeah," he grumbled, perfectly knowing that if he said one more thing, Sam would kill him on the spot, and "Stanley" would probably help hide his body. _Fuck you, Stanley. She might be able to take away my freedom of speech, but she'll never take away my freedom of thinking about how many ways I can kick your ass._

"No prob, babe," he said. Oh, God . . . He'd been one of _those_ types. It was absolutely cringe worthy, and it only made Josh want to choke him even more.

Even the saint herself reacted oddly after she was referred to as babe from someone she'd never met. Attempting to make the conversation less awkward, she came up with the statement: "Um. We'd just like to get our skates. How much is it?"

"For you, babe,"— _stop calling her that—_ "it's free." His damned toothy grin taunted Josh like an owner taunting a dog with a bone. How he'd love to sink his teeth into "Stanley's" stupid neck so he could never say babe again. "But for your friend it's twenty. Think you can handle that, bro?"

Josh wanted to rip the geeky glasses right off his face and stomp them into the curb. "Yeah," he spat, "I can _handle_ it just fine." He then jerked a twenty from his wallet and slammed it on the counter. The two of them exchanged evil glances before Josh backed away—not by choice, but because he didn't want to cause a scene with Sam standing in the background. And according to the look she was also giving the freak, she disliked "Stanley" about as much as Josh did. Beating the shit out of him would've definitely been a benefit to society, but the judge probably wouldn't have seen it that way.

They received their skates, and Josh was thankful that he no longer had to deal with "Stanley." Sitting down at a table, Sam took off her sneakers, meanwhile Josh was having difficulty simply unbuckling the straps.

"You okay over there, champ?" she asked. "You had me scared for a second. I thought you was going to snap on that guy. I'm proud of you for not doing it. You might just squeeze yourself back into society after all." She patted his shoulder and helped him gather to his feet. They linked arms, and Sam used her weight to keep Josh upright.

"Shit, shit, shit," he cursed under his breath, ready to lose his balance at any time. People stopped just to watch him flail around like a chicken with its head cut off. Sam's touch calmed him down though; so he took a deep breath and dared to roll forward by himself. She continued to stay close to him in case he slipped. "I'm doing it!" he proclaimed gleefully, stumbling forward inch by inch. They hadn't reached the arena yet—and if he made it there without busting his ass, he'd feel accomplished.

He hadn't realized it until now, but they were once again snugly close to each other; he could smell her minty breath and see every pore on her soft skin. "Are you wearing a magnet in your pocket or something? Gotta say, Sammy, I'm a fan of Crest Spearmint too. How many times a day do you floss?" He looked closely at her teeth. "Looks like you got a piece of cabbage stuck in your mouth. Here, let me get it for you." Sam moved away before he could touch her.

"Joshua Melanie Washington!" she scolded, slapping him in the back of the head.

At that current moment in time, people had already come from all angles to watch as the two of them attempted to have a normal, fun time, but were failing miserably. And this fact was only reinforced when Sam decided it was better to skate away from Josh than to help him.

First, he swung his arms around like a madman, second, he tried grabbing the wall, but by then it was already too late. The velocity in which he was traveling was far too much for him to handle. A scream and a couple of horrified shrieks later, Josh rammed straight into the side of the arena. _Kaboom!_ Was the sound of his head hitting the glass.

He figured he deserved it after the two times he almost knocked Sam out. The feeling of hands wrapping around his arms caused him to jerk around and try to stand, believing that it was "Stanley" who held him in his grasp; but was relieved when he saw two hazel eyes staring back at him. "Oh, hi, Sammy," he mumbled, his vision blurry from the clash. "You've come at a weird time. Don't mind me, I'm just _laying_ around." He laughed at his lame joke.

She then proceeded to help him back to his feet and dusted off his sweater, keeping a hard grip on his shoulder so he wouldn't crash into something else. Laughter echoed in the background, but Josh ignored it; however, he couldn't ignore the same damn smirk formed on "Stanley's" lips. Josh grunted angrily. Sam forced him to set his eyes back on her when she said: "Damn, Josh. I didn't know you was prone to slamming into shit. It was a total wipe out, dude; and it was freakin' fantastic!" She roughly ran her hand through his hair. "Well, at least you aren't suffering from any injuries, but I doubt that would matter—you've always been slow in the membrane."

"What does that even mean? I can't believe you'd just abandon me like that. I thought we were friends, Sammy. I thought we were friends!" Josh melodramatically cried out, rubbing the top of his head in a painful manner. There weren't many feelings worse than the feeling of not being in control of your movement. It was like trying to glide on air with these things.

"That's what you get for being a weirdo!" Sam gingerly placed his hand into her's and led them into the arena. It would've been a lie if Josh said that she had tough, manly hands. On the contrary, her hands were soft and smooth like lotion; and for the first time out of the whole afternoon, he was finally experiencing fun.

"You know, Sammy, they say holding hands is the greatest way to show public affection," he stated matter-of-factually, giving her one of his dorky smirks. In his mind, he was the smoothest guy in the world; but in reality, he was plain weird.

Sam rolled her eyes. "Shut up. I already told you, it's _not_ happening. Ever."

"Go ahead, keep playing hard to get." Josh couldn't help but to laugh. "You'll be mine eventually, just wait and see. Nobody can resist The Josh."

She raised a brow. "The Josh? Did you really just refer to yourself as The Josh? You're a psycho."

"If I'm a psycho, what does that make you? The psycho's best friend? You oughtta make like an egg and split—and never call to check on me again. That's what all the other assholes did." He hadn't really cared that nobody ever called him, but he did often wonder why—well, he knew why—any rational thinking human would _know_ why. But he truly believed he'd been a victim too. He hadn't done anything wrong. The prank, they'd deserved every bit of it; but he'd never admit these beliefs to Sam—she'd never forgive him if he did. All he could do now was to accept it and carry on.

"That's not fair, Josh," Sam said. "Everyone is suffering from their own demons after what happened. You especially." It was time for her to turn on her personal question cap. "Have you even considered apologizing for what you did?"

"Apologize for what?" Josh asked, stumped by the question. What had he done worthy of an apology? He played an innocent prank. Nobody died—unlike his sisters. In his mind, he'd been completely justified; so, how dare Sam chastise him for something _they_ caused.

"Are you serious? You really don't realize that what you did was wrong?" Sam was dumbfounded by his lack of moral compass. She was almost tempted to let go of his hand and watch him fumble around until he fell on his face again; instead she simply gripped it tighter, almost as if all her frustration was being transported into a death clutch.

An expression of pain popped up on Josh's face. "Too tight, Sammy," he pleaded, shaking his arm up and down, trying to break away before she crushed his hand. "Ow, ow, ow!" Sam only continued to apply more pressure. Pain exploded from his eyes; meanwhile Sam was finding the whole display hilarious. "Okay, okay, you win! I'm sorry. So, so sorry! I was an idiot. I shouldn't have done what I did. Now, please, let go before you break my hand!" He let out a loud sigh when he felt Sam's grip ease up. She smiled in wake of her success.

"Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way," she said. Josh breathed weakly while Sam simply laughed. He was afraid that if he said anything snarky, she'd bash his head into the glass. "All you have left now are Chris, Ashley, Emily, Matt, Mike, and Jessica." She smirked. "Think you can handle that, big guy?"

Josh nodded quickly. "Course I can handle it. I'm Joshua Washington for fuck sake. I can do anything I put my mind to. I'll apologize so good that they'll be begging to suck my man titties." He stared at Sam with a look of contemplation. "Go ahead." He used his free hand to trace over his nipple. "Give it a suckle. It's nutritional—like a mommy feeding her daughter."

"Ew!" Sam slapped him across the face playfully. "You're disgusting. No wonder Chris doesn't want anything to do with you. You won't be taking anyone to the bone zone—or the titty zone."

Josh rubbed the back of his neck embarrassingly. "Chris told you about that didn't he? Hey, it was just advice—and pretty damn good advice too."

"The day you give good advice will be the day aliens destroy the world," she joked, lightly jabbing at his inflated ego. "Seriously, though, you need to start thinking about what you're going to say to Chris the next time you see him. He needs to know that his best friend has his back."

Josh eyed her suspiciously. "You say that as if you saw him yesterday." He paused and reflected on what he'd gathered through their conversation. "Sam," he was serious, "did you go and see him?" She could see herself in the reflection of his eyes—they were cold and cautious, like he was expecting her to turn and attack him at any second.

There was no point in lying. He'd see through it anyways. Josh was a very smart, critical thinker when he wanted to be, and few things could scoot by him unnoticed. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said apologetically—he frowned. "Chris told me not to. If you—"

"That bastard," he hissed beneath his breath. He hadn't noticed it, but he was glaring. "Does he hate me that much? After all those years, all those damn years, he's decided to never see me again? What a fuckin' wasted friendship—he can kiss my ass." If it wasn't for the fact that he was in the middle of the arena without any clue how to work skates, he would've stormed off.

"Josh," she said calmly. "Imagine putting yourself in his shoes. I can tell you right now that he doesn't hate you. He's just . . . unsure."

"Unsure about what?"

"I can't say. I'm sorry, Josh," Sam replied quietly. A part of her wanted to explain everything that Chris had told her; but, out of respect for her friend's wishes, she stayed closed up and tucked all of it inside her brain—making Josh an extremely unhappy camper.

"What?" He scowled. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? What's going on, Sam. Tell me. Now. I'm not playing any more games."

What was she supposed to say? That Chris had joined the Marines to get away from him? That Chris couldn't stomach being in the same state as everyone else? If she did tell this to Josh, how would he react? Knowing that his best friend was going into a field where he could possibly die. Josh had enough trouble dealing with grief already, there was no reason for her to add to that grief. "You'll have to trust me," was what she could say. "If Chris wants you to know, he'll tell you himself."

The more she talked, the angrier he became. _This was a stupid fucking idea,_ he thought bitterly. _Sam doesn't give a shit about me. Nobody does. Damn all of them to Hell._ "What do you mean by that? He freakin' hates me! Why would he ever tell me anything?" He'd been so worked up he hadn't noticed the mass of people forming around them. One of them being the bitch himself: "Stanley."

He grabbed Josh's shoulder. "What the hell is your problem, bro?" Josh looked at him evilly. "Leave the babe alone, or else I'm gonna have to throw your ass out."

Without hesitation, Josh reared back his fist and punched "Stanley's" stupid little smile right off his face. "Fuck you!" he shouted as he did so. The entire place erupted in hysteria. Not caring about falling, Josh lunged at the teenager and started violently elbowing him, screaming: "How does this feel, _bro?_ Are you okay, _bro?_ I'm going to tear you in half, _bro!"_

Sam tried pulling him off the poor kid, but Josh was too far gone, and he was too strong for her to do anything about it. She had to turn to the people around her. "Somebody help!" she shouted.

Relentlessly, Josh continued to punch "Stanley" over and over again. "Bro!" he kept repeating with every connection he made with his knuckles. Drips of blood landed on the marbled floor like little droplets of rain, pooling up beside "Stanley's" head that was now attached to the ground, being punished over and over again by Josh's savage strikes.

He was going to kill him. That's what Sam believed anyways; until a muscular black man stepped in from the crowd and grabbed Josh by the shirt and threw him over his shoulder. "You're in some big trouble, boy," he said, throwing him outside the arena and forcing him against a table. "Somebody call the cops," he thunderously commanded. Josh squirmed around like a worm, groaning, and grunting, but the man was far too powerful for him to maneuver out of.

"Stanley" was still on the floor, gurgling the blood in his throat like mouthwash. He coughed and then started to cry softly. _Josh,_ thought Sam horrified. _What have you done?_ People went to "Stanley's" rescue and helped him up, calling the ambulance. Meanwhile, Sam took off her skates. "Josh," she said, coming to his aid; the black man continued to hold him down. She bent over. "Stop moving. You're just going to make it worse for yourself. What the hell were you thinking? You don't just attack someone! We could've left, went to the movies, or something!"

"Fuck!" Josh shouted. "Not so hard, man!" His reddened eyes glanced up for a moment and stared into Sam: hurt, sorrow, pity, all these things, he could read off her expression. And it dawned on him right then . . . What had he done? His anger had gotten the best of him once again, but this time Sam was caught up in the crossfire. "I didn't mean for this to happen," he whispered. "I didn't mean for this to happen . . ." Instantly, his mind returned to the mountain, to the exact point where Chris and Mike tied him up in the shed. He closed his eyes as he digested the terrifying memories. Everything around him: Sam, the black stranger, "Stanley," the sound of police sirens, the steady drum of red and blue lights, it all seemed to fade away inside his mind's inescapable maze.

 _ **November 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Friday**_

 _ **Chris**_

The gym was a sacred place as far as Chris was concerned. He spent everyday lifting, running, and overall increasing his athletic performance. He'd grown not only physically, but mentally as well. Kickboxing was the sport he'd taken up for the past several months. He was still a novice in terms of actual competition, but to regular people, he was a beast.

 _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four._ He counted each punch and kick that connected with the heavy bag. He payed little attention to the brutal coldness of an empty gym, and focused solely on his form and power. Sweat cascaded hungrily down his cheeks. The tank-top he was wearing showed off his developed chest and arms; he'd attained them through the tough challenges of bench pressing, push-ups, pull-ups, dead-lifts, and so on. Joining the Marine Corps meant he needed to be at peak condition, and that's exactly what he was training for.

Sam continued to rest heavily on his mind since their talk yesterday. He thought about what she'd said about Josh, and how he was trying to make up for what happened. Chris didn't know what to think. Some inner part of himself, past the hurt and all the other bullshit, told him to go to Josh's house immediately and forgive him. That was just some small inner part of him however. The rest hated the idea of forgiving. No. If he was going to forgive him, he needed to make sure he was one hundred percent ready. He hoped the Marine Corps would cement that certainty.

"Chris," came a voice from behind. He stopped after one more hard roundhouse and gazed over at the office, where a man wearing a Planet Fitness t-shirt and shorts stood. The door was open, and he had a telephone in his hand. His name was Ian—one of the owners—and he and Chris were good friends. They worked out together and treated each other to occasional sparring matches. Chris learned a lot from him—you could say he was his closest friend other than Sam. "You gotta phone call," he said.

Chris raised an inquisitive brow and slid off his boxing gloves. He then lightly jogged over and was handed the phone. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Ashley. She said it's real important," Ian replied, closing the door, and sitting back down at his work desk. He was writing something, but Chris didn't know what. Probably had to do with the new members who'd recently joined the cardio class.

"Hey, what's up, Ash?" he spoke through the line, his breathing still heavy from hitting on the bag. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. "Is everything okay?" He could hear cars zipping by in the background. She must've been outside on break.

"Yeah, I'm okay." A pause quickly followed.

"Ash?" wondered Chris.

"Sam just called," she finally said. Another pause. "Josh got arrested."

Chris's eyes shot open. "Shit! What for?" He saw Ian through the window, who appeared to be watching from his desk, worried.

"Is everything good out there, man?" he shouted loudly.

Chris cupped the phone so Ashley wouldn't hear him. Nodding his head, "Yeah, don't worry about it, dude. Everything's fine." It was enough to appease Ian's curiosity, and so he got back to writing. While Chris was frantically talking and asking questions about Josh's arrest.

"He got in a fight with some guy and broke his nose," she explained. "Sam told me to tell you to meet her at the courthouse. His mom's already got a hold of their lawyer, they're going to try and get him out tonight. Just hurry and be careful driving."

The moment their conversation ended, Chris rushed into the locker room, took a quick shower, and got dressed. He threw his bag filled with his smelly clothes over his shoulder and headed to the door. Outside waiting for him was his brand new 2016 Toyota Fusion.

Ian chased after Chris when he saw him leaving. "Where are you going?" he called. Around this time, the gym was desolate, so it was only the two of them—and they were supposed to go a few rounds in the ring. "Girl trouble?" He stopped when he caught up and saw Chris's blank expression. "Damn, you look like you just saw a ghost."

"Something like that," he mumbled, brushing away into the parking lot. Ian followed. "Look, man, I gotta go. And I'd rather not explain it right now." Chris then swung open the backseat of his car and flung his bag into the floorboard. The air was cold and the sun was beginning to set, creating a dark bluish sky.

Ian shrugged. "Alright, alright, fine. I get it—you're a scared little bitch. I guess I'll have to beat the shit out of you tomorrow then. Give the wife a kiss for me." He laughed and started back inside. Chris flicked him off before getting into his car and driving off.

On his way there, Chris passed by a few street signs reading: Roadwork Ahead 1,000 Feet. Already he could see a crew of road workers coming up on his headlights. They were huddled around a slow ass paver machine. One of them was holding a smaller sign and wearing bright orange—his job was making sure the traffic moved along peacefully without damaging any equipment. Chris followed the car in front of him closely until it was time for him to get back into the right lane, which was at least a dozen meters past the construction site.

He reached down and grabbed a hold of his phone. "Where's that damn courthouse?" he grumbled, swiping over to google map. "Set GPS destination to 1101 Warner Street," he told it—for some odd reason he could remember the address name, but not the exact physical location. The highway traffic started to slim down when he turned left onto a lonesome road. He kept the GPS close by, and would look down every couple of seconds to make sure he was going the right way.

Josh getting into serious trouble was all too familiar, and it was always Chris or Sam (mostly Chris) doing the saving. But getting thrown into the slammer for fighting? That was a first, and, hopefully, the last. All in all, it was traditional Josh behavior—beating people up for ridiculous reasons. If they were to ever become friends again, Chris would have to put him in his place. He wasn't the fragile, self doubting nerd he used to be, and Josh needed to know that. _Sam's gonna be pissed,_ he thought to himself, already imagining her ranting and raving about how Josh ruined their evening out—nothing new there. He was mostly concerned with how much bail was going to cost. Surely, Josh's parents were rich enough to cover it—as long as the judge agreed to release him.

 _Chris (to Ashley): I'm almost there._

 _Ashley: Okay. What do you want me to do? I'm about to clock out._

 _Chris: It's up to you. But I might need you there with me so I don't beat the snot out of the little dickweed._

 _Ashley: Josh is bae for life. You'd never hurt him._

 _Chris: I would if you told me to. Tell me to._

 _Ashley: Nope._

 _Chris: Aw. You're no fun. Can I refund you for another girlfriend?_

 _Ashley: Ha. You couldn't live without me._

 _Chris: Wanna bet?_

 _Ashley: Bleh._

 _Chris: Bleh._

Entering the dark courthouse parking lot, Chris looked around to see if he could find Sam anywhere. There were at least a dozen police cars lined up out front, and it made parking difficult. He drove around for several minutes. Finding a space, he pulled into it and unbuckled. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. When he felt mentally prepared for what laid ahead, he picked up his phone, scrolled down to Sam's name, and called her.

"Hello?"

"Sup, Sam. It's Chris. How's our baby lunatic doing?"

She sighed. "I don't know. The cops won't let me talk to him over the phone. His mom's here. We're trying our best to get the court to let us bail him out tonight."

"What the hell happened, Sam? Ash called me from her work, saying he beat the shit out of someone."

"It's a long story," she replied. "We went skating—there was this weird kid who worked there. He kept calling me babe, and Josh eventually snapped on him. They had to call the ambulance because Josh almost killed him."

"Jesus Christ, Sam," Chris breathed. "Are they gonna put him back in Lambrook?"

"I don't know. Damn it, Josh . . . why would he . . . gah!"

"Stay calm," he reassured her. "I'm heading inside. I'll see you in a minute."

He closed his phone, stepped out of his car, locking the door behind him, and broke into a jog. The glass doors slid open for him, and he was greeted by a friendly officer holding a scanner. "Hope ye don't mind me scannin' ye," the officer said. "Can't be too careful y'know." Chris said nothing as he allowed the tobacco smelling lawman to scan his body. "Looks like ye's clean as a whistle," the cop said afterwards. "Go on in, bub."

Chris shuffled past him and followed the signs to the room where Sam and Josh's mom were. They'd been demanding to see a judge for the past thirty minutes. The woman they were talking to sat alone in a small booth.

"We can't wait until Monday!" Mrs. Washington shouted. "I want my son out now. I'll stay here all night if I have to!"

Sam was sitting in the corner by herself. She smiled when she saw the form of her friend. "Chris," she said—he sat down beside her—"I'm so glad to see you. Want some gum?" She'd been chewing her own piece as a means to keep herself calm.

"Nah—thanks though." He looked over at the two arguing women, and then looked back at Sam. "Are they gonna let him out tonight or what?"

"That's what we're hoping for," she told him. "But they're saying we might have to wait until Monday."

"Why?"

She rested her aching head inside the comfort of her palms. "I have no clue—something to do with the time. They only allow bailouts on weekdays." She looked at the clock above them. It was one in the morning. Saturday.

"Fuck," Chris mumbled furiously. "I'm gonna beat his ass for putting us through this."

Sam chuckled. "You and me both."

 _ **November 13**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016**_ _ **th**_ _ **Saturday**_

 _ **Josh**_

The cell Josh was kept in was cold and dank—little crevices of moonlight bled through the barred window. He wrapped his hands around the metal and looked outside: fences, guard towers, and a basketball court, were what he saw dwelling within the darkness. The chilly wind blew through his greasy hair, followed by a sharp tingle crawling up his spine. It reminded him of the prison movies he used to watch with his father—though there wasn't an evil warden named Hannity here. Nope. Just regular police officers.

He sighed—for his freedom was gone—and he fell limply on to his cot. Across from him, sharing the small space, was an older man with scratches of blond hair on his head, and a long, swirly beard. If Josh wasn't mistaken, he looked like he belonged in a badass biker gang. All he needed were sunglasses and a skull bandanna. Josh wanted to ask him what he was in for, but thought it better to leave him alone; because, for all he knew, the man could've been insane.

Several minutes passed and neither spoke a word. Attempting to make the situation a little less weird, Josh started grinning like an idiot, though no words followed. In return, biker guy gave him a hard look.. "Uh . . ." Josh said cautiously, but the man's stare only intensified. He quickly covered himself with his pillow in case he was dealing with someone who could see through clothes. "Can I help you, sir?" Swamped in fear, Josh leaned his back against the concrete wall, gulping. _This dude's crazy! He's definitely going to kill me._

"What's your name, little man?" was the question asked. It surprised Josh enough that he stumbled around with his answer.

"My name? It's . . . uh—it's Joshua; but people usually call me Josh." The biker man leaned in as if he was about to strike, holding out his calloused hand, but instead formed it into a friendly offer for shaking. Josh eyed him and his hand quizzically. "Er—"

The man bellowed in laughter. "I promise I don't bite—at least 'til you piss me off. You ain't gonna piss me off are ya?"

Josh shook his head. "No," he replied, his voice frail from his uncertainty, mumbling the last words: "I hope not," and took his cellmate's hand.

"Good." The man pulled him in a bit closer. "My name's Roger, but it's Elliot to you." Seeing that Josh understood, he let go of his hand. "So, what's a goody-two-shoes doing in a place with a bunch of lowlifes like me? Ain't ya in college or somethin? Tech school? You gotta have a place to be other than here. Ain't I right?"

"I dropped out of college," Josh answered—he received another hard glare—"It's, um, a really long story." He shrugged and looked down at the floor, away from Elliot's inquisitive green eyes. "I guess you can say I'm a loser, a psycho—" He shrugged, but this time more hopelessly. "And to answer your question : no, I deserve to be here," his voice quivered as he held back his tears. "I've hurt everyone close to me. I'm no good—no good . . ."

What happened next was unexpected.

Without ever glancing back up for a second, he felt Elliot's hand lightly cup his shoulder. "Ain't no reason to be so hard on ya'self," he said, sitting down beside Josh. "It's gonna get better—after every storm comes a rainbow, or some shit like that."

Josh chuckled and wiped his wet eyes with his sweater's sleeve. "That's what I used to tell my sisters when we were kids: through turmoil and rain there will always be a rainbow that forms." He stared blankly at the other side of the room, visions of Beth and Hannah stained his memories. His laughter soon turned into painful flakes of tears. "It's my fault. If I could've been there for them when they needed me, then maybe—" he swallowed, "then maybe they'd still be alive." He closed his eyes and thought of a place far away, where sorrow no longer existed; but when he opened them, nothing had changed; he was still in jail, and his sisters were still dead.

Elliot simply nodded his head after hearing Josh's confession. "I lost some'un close to me too," he said, dipping his hand into his jean's pocket, and pulling out an old, scrapbook picture that was singed around the edges. Josh studied it closely. The picture was of a little blonde headed girl wearing a pretty spring dress, smiling into the camera; and an older woman that looked identical to her: she was on one knee and had her arms wrapped around the little one's shoulders. It was a beautiful picture.

"Is that your family?" Josh asked, noticing a twinkle of guilt in his cellmate's eyes.

"They used to be," Elliot replied. Sweat was swimming around on his forehead, and so he used his bulky forearm as his rag. He smiled at the picture of his wife and daughter, but it wasn't a happy smile—it was a smile laced in sadness. "I ain't seen 'em in three months." The long absence was obviously beginning to wear down his spirit. A man's family was as precious to him as his own life; and to live without ever seeing them was worse than death itself. "That's Marybeth," he pointed lovingly to his daughter, and then to his wife. "And that there is her mamma: Lydia—she's gorgeous ain't she? The greatest woman on God's green Earth." He held the little piece like it was golden treasure.

"You must be proud," Josh said. "Do you miss them?"

"Everyday we've been apart—ain't nothin' more important to me." Elliot sighed—what once was a man of great stature was now the equivalent to a child missing its blanket. "And just like you," he glanced solemnly at Josh, "it's my fault why we ain't together—my damn anger and hatred got me thrown in here."

"What happened?"

The next couple of words were some of the hardest Elliot ever had to say. "I killed a man." Tears were now falling into his lap. The terrible memories were suddenly coming back to him.

"Why?" Josh asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable.

Elliot refused to meet his eyes, and, instead, buried his head into the paper. "He raped my daughter," he said brokenly. The tragic truth stabbed Josh right through the chest.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. The soft cries coming from Elliot tore at the strings inside his heart. What could he possibly say to make the situation any better? A man prosecuted for killing his daughter's rapist . . . it was hard to stomach—and then to actually see the man fall apart before your very eyes was soul wrenching.

"Don't be," Elliot said, taking a chance and looking back up. "It ain't your fault, son—the world's a cruel place, and it'll beat ya down if you let it." Quietly, he placed the picture back into his pocket; the tears had stopped falling. "You've gotta deal with the hand you're given—ain't a place for wishing differently. We all got battles to fight, we all make mistakes; but there ain't nothin' that can't be fixed." Josh listened closely. "Callin' yerself a psycho ain't true, little man. You gotta light in ya, don't let it blow out—ain't never too late to do right. The people you've hurt—I'd wager every single one of 'em would forgive ya if you asked them to."

Sighing, Josh closed his eyes for one thoughtful minute. Sam, Chris, Ashley, Mike, Jess, Matt, Emily . . . he imagined their faces, imagined them together, and then imagined them apart—expressions of sadness and fear written across them like words on a tombstone. _He's right,_ Josh thought, opening his eyes in silence. _I can't give up. I can't._

"Elliot," he began. "Thank you. I think I understand now what I have to do when I get out of here . . ." choking on his last couple of words. _If I get out of here._ "I won't allow my past to destroy me." The change in Josh's heart washed over him like a tidal wave. _You might be gone,_ he thought, giving his eyes to the sky, _but you're still with me. I will see you again._

In that moment, Josh and Elliot seemed to understand one another—a friendship made in a place you'd never expect. Did it really take getting arrested and being put into a cell to make him finally realize that, even though he still had demons to combat, he wasn't alone? He still had people who cared for him—and if he wasn't going to live for himself, he could at least live for them. He'd let them down before, and he wasn't going to do it again.

The cell door opened. "Joshua Washington?" entered an officer.

"Yeah," he said, sharing glances with Elliot, "that's me."

Smiling, the officer replied, "C'mon, kid. You're getting out of here." Josh's mouth dropped.

"Really? Who—who—"

"Your mom persisted we come and get you," the officer interrupted. "You're lucky she cares for you. I wish my mom was half the mom she is."

Josh blinked—it must've been a dream . . . but it wasn't. Messily, he dropped from his cot on to his feet and turned around. Elliot remained sitting, smiling at him. With sincere eyes, Josh held out his hand for his buddy to grasp. "I wish you the best," he said. Elliot took his hand, and they gripped each other tightly—as if they'd always been friends; but, now, they always would be.

"Go get 'em, little man. I got faith in ya, don't let me down," Elliot said and released him. Josh nodded proudly—proud to have come to know such a beautiful, beautiful person.

As the cell door closed, and as Josh stood on the side of freedom, he said one last thing, something he hoped Elliot could hold on to. "I'll find your family," he promised. "And I will tell them how much you love them and how you saved me." He saw the tears stroll down his friend's cheek. _This one's for you, Elliot. You'll see them again. I know you will._

Sam, Chris, and Melinda were waiting for Josh outside. Upon seeing him walking down the steps, they ran and swarmed around him excitedly. The first hug came from his mom. "I was so scared," she said, crying, and kissing his cheek. The second hug came from Sam.

"Fuckin' idiot," she scolded him afterwards, punching his shoulder. "You better not ever pull a stunt like that again." Her tone was serious, but sweet at the same time. He was about to refute what she said with something sarcastic, but then he saw Chris standing silently behind her.

"Hey, man," Chris greeted, his head shaved and everything. "Long time no see. How've you been—well, obviously not that good, being in jail and all. Ashley called and told me what happened. I've always said you've got one hell of a right hook. You—" He was cut off by Josh's hug. It was the farthest thing from a manly hug as possible.

"Man," he said. "I can't believe you came. I thought you hated me, bro." Josh sniffled. "And what the hell happened to your hair? You look like a fucking Shaolin Monk."

Chris laughingly pushed him off. "Dude, what the hell? Did you drop the soap or something while you were in there? Cut that hugging shit out. Have some goddamn dignity." Jokingly, he rubbed off all the grease from Josh's hair from his jacket.

Josh couldn't help the wide smirk forming on his face. The night air might've been freezing, but inside, he felt warm—it was a feeling he'd long ago lost.

In the background, talking and laughing, were his mom and Sam. They appeared to be showing great humor towards his and Chris's embarrassing hug. Josh didn't care. He was just glad to be in their presence. Hannah's and Beth's spirits lived in them; they lived in every laugh, word, hug, and smile. And all it took for Josh to realize this was spending a night behind bars. If Chris and Sam were willing to forgive him, then maybe Ashley, Mike, Jessica, Matt, and Emily would be willing too.

His mom took him home that night. Laying wrapped up and quiet in his bed, thoughts—some old, some new—began circling around his exhausted brain. Shutting his eyes slowly, and sinking into the soft mattress, he remembered what he'd told Elliot before he left. He'd promised to find his family; but there was one tiny problem.

He had no clue where to start. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized he didn't know the first thing about apologizing either. Desperate for an answer, he texted Sam.

 _Josh: I'm in a shitty place right now, Sammy._

 _Sam: Do you know what time it is? Can't this wait? I spent two hours trying to get your ass outta jail, don't make me put you back in there._

 _Josh: Fine. I'll text Chris. He'll help me._

 _Sam: Don't count on it._

 _Josh (to Chris): Dude. I'm in some major crap right now._

 _Chris: Fuckin' Josh. You woke me and Ash up. I gotta work today. Text me later, bro. Seriously, man. Fuck._

 _Josh: Fine. Fuck you too, dickhole._

Angry at their refusals, Josh closed his phone and turned off the lamp beside him. "Fuckin' Chris," he mumbled sleepily. "Fuckin' Sam." He muttered a few more words, but they were inaudible. The rage eventually died though once he grumbled his way to sleep.

* * *

 **A/N: Thank you for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 3**

 _ **November 15th 2016 Monday**_

 _ **Josh**_

The last thing Josh wanted Dr. Eddington to know was him getting arrested for fighting, and that his court date was set on the first week in January—not exactly the best way to start a Monday morning's therapy session. According to his mom, he wouldn't be making a return to Lambrook; however, the final say so was still up to the judge—and he hoped they'd let him off easy, a couple of months probation perhaps.

Dr. Eddington sat observantly behind his desk, wearing a richly coated brown suit, a light blue undershirt, black dress pants, and a black tie—the typical psychologist getup. "So, how have you been, Joshua?" he asked, each letter pronounced precisely. Behind a pair of expensive glasses were his unfaltering green eyes. Propped up on the bookshelf a few feet behind them—paper held inside glossy plastic covers—were several copies of _Surviving The Grief._ A fitting book title, but a book title completely hollow to Josh, since he never even opened the first page.

"I've been doing alright, doc," he said, only partially lying. Josh needed to tread carefully with how many untruths he told, knowing that Eddington would easily catch on. "What's new with you? I like your suit by the way."

"Oh, thank you," Eddington replied, smiling, and rested his hands on the table, lightly tapping over the paper beneath them. "Let's see . . . I've had this jacket for two years now," he explained. "It's warm, the inside is cotton—great for the autumn weather." He raised his thick, curly, gray brow. "You seem awfully cheery today. Is there something you want to tell me, Josh?"

"Yeah, there is something," he said thoughtfully. "I know this might sound a little random, but , , , I've been, uh, getting into contact with some old friends." He worded himself carefully.

"Which ones?" Eddington asked.

"Sam and Chris." Saying their names made Josh feel a bit queasy. He knew Eddington was already familiar with them, after seeing their names in the reports on the news; however, there was never any inclination for Josh to talk about them directly. Until now. "They've, uh . . ." he continued to stumble around, searching for the right things to say. "We've kinda been rebuilding our bridges—or something like that." The sweat sticking to the back of his neck aggravated him immensely. He swatted at it with the back of his right hand, laughing nervously. "What do you think, doc? Is it a good idea or not?"

Eddington leaned over and looked at Josh thoroughly. After finding whatever it was he was looking for, he smiled brightly. "That's wonderful!" he said gleefully. "I can't think of a better thing for you. Am I safe to assume that they've forgiven you?"

Josh shrugged. "Dunno for sure," he replied. "I haven't really asked; but I'm guessing so—they wouldn't be texting and calling me otherwise; unless they just feel sorry for me." He frowned when he thought about the possibility of them simply pitying him. But Eddington refused to let Josh fall down into that hole.

"Your friends are very good people," he said. "I want you to make it your goal to do everything in your power to show them how much you love and appreciate them."

"Woah, there, doc," Josh sighed with an exaggerated breath. "Don't be getting soft on me all of a sudden. You're still Mr. PhD—this isn't some love making class. I think I'll stick to what I do best; and that's being me."

Eddington nodded. "That's the answer I was looking for. You're a smart young man, Josh. I don't want you to ever think differently. You are you, as your friends are themselves. I know it's cliché, but people's differences are what usually brings them together."

"I've got all the differences in the world, doc," Josh chuckled, his mouth hanging open as if he was about to proclaim his happiness to the world. "I've got everything under control. Trust me. I've made up my mind that my new year's resolution will be righting all my wrongs."

"That's going to require a lot of work, Josh. Do you think you can handle it?'

"Are you kidding?" Josh pretended surprise. "I'm Josh fuckin' Washington! I'm an unstoppable force, a tidal wave that consumes everything in its path. I'm the alpha of the alpha males—top dog. Woof woof." His eyes started twitching, and his feet wouldn't stop hitting the floor.

"Have you taken your medicine today?" Eddington asked, immediately growing worried.

"I don't know. Who cares? I don't need it. I'm perfectly fine—a'okay. Can't a guy be happy? I'm fucking happy, so what? I don't care. I really don't care. Doc—" He froze for one minute, and then the next, screamed, "Doc!"

To the untrained perspective, Josh's behavior would've been considered a public nuisance, some random stranger on crack; but, in reality, it was one of the symptoms of his illness. The mania he was experiencing was all a part of the disorder known as Schizoaffective-Bi Polar Type: a serious psychotic disorder that negatively impacts logical thinking, motor-skills, speech, etc—it even goes into the territory of vivid command hallucinations and paranoia.

"Josh," Eddington said calmly. "I need you to breathe, okay? C'mon, breathe with me. One . . . two . . . three . . .

Closing his eyes, inhaling, and listening to the sound of his doctor's voice, Josh began feeling a soft sensation wash over him. All his anxieties and fast movements dwindled into nonexistence. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Eddington had brought out a prescribed bottle of Xanax—as prescribed from Josh's psychiatrist. "Take one of these," he said, walking over and putting his hand on his patient's shoulder.

Josh looked carefully at the small white pill in his hand, then to Eddington. "Okay," he breathed. "Okay. I will." Quickly and quietly, he popped it into his mouth, and after he was given a cup of refreshing water, he swallowed. "Thanks, doc," Josh said appreciatively. Eddington sat back down.

"Okay," he sighed, adjusting his tie. "Let's get back down to business. So, today we will be going over some coping skills you can use in your day-to-day life. . . ."

* * *

 _ **November 15th 2016 Monday**_

 _ **Chris**_

Josh didn't know it yet, but Chris was going to pick him up after his therapy appointment. He texted Melinda at around eight in the morning, explained his plans for the day to her, and left his apartment by ten o'clock—earlier than what he was used to, but he felt inclined to meet up with Josh, for old times' sake.

"You two stay out of trouble," Ashley said, watching as he headed out the door, smiling. She was very glad that they'd become friends again, believing it would do Chris some good. Though she worried how Josh was going to take the news that his best friend was leaving in a couple of months to join the Marine Corps. According to Chris, he was going to break it to him today. All she could really do at that point was hope for the best.

"You worry too much," Chris said, pecking her on the lips before leaving.

His car was parked out front, beside a red pickup truck—he believed the owner's name was Charley, or something like that; he was their next door neighbor. Using his keys, he popped open his Fusion's trunk, and locked inside two black cases were a AR15 and a SPAS-12 Shotgun. Assuming Josh would enjoy going to the range and shooting for a bit, which Chris was positive he would. One of the very things they had in common was their interest in guns.

He opened the cases and checked both weapons, taking them out of the trunk and going over the stocks, making sure the triggers were locked on safety, the sights, and so on. The SPAS was the first firearm he ever bought when he earned his weapon license. He'd shot that thing at least a thousand times, every time becoming more and more efficient. Definitely came a long way since his days of shooting cans at the lodge—an official bad ass, well, that's what he called himself at least.

The drive took half an hour, and he pulled up to the three story building, exited his vehicle, brought out a smoke, lit it, and sat on the roof of his car, waiting for Josh to come pouring out—he could just picture his surprised face. They hadn't drove together in forever; hell, they hadn't really talked in forever; but Chris decided today was going to be the day they had that long awaited talk—though he wondered if it was a good idea to have deadly weapons thrown into the mix. He chuckled quietly and sucked on his cigarette. _I'll kick his ass if he tries anything._ Josh was the type of person who cared little about personal safety, so it was crucial that Chris laid down the ground rules once they began shooting.

It was perfect weather. No harsh winds, so they wouldn't have to worry about it affecting their shots, no rain, that was self explanatory, only a comfortable November breeze. And the shady tree he parked under kept him extra cool and relaxed. However, that relaxation soon dissolved along with the end of his cigarette as he saw the man in question exit the building. Chris watched him for several funny moments. Josh looked completely lost, searching the parking lot frantically for his mom's car.

"You okay over there, man?" Chris shouted. Josh turned around and faced him with a bright grin on his face. "Your mom told me you had nothing to do today." He jumped off his car, and stepped on his cigarette bud. He motioned him over. "C'mon, man, check these beauties out."

Josh nodded his head and lightly jogged over to Chris, following him to his trunk."Damn, dude it's good to see you. What do you got to show me?" Josh asked, his brow raised, waiting for the reveal.

"Take a look, man." Opening the trunk, Chris hovered his hands over the two cases dramatically. "Feast your eyes, baby dick." He unclicked their locks, and by the sound of Josh's gasp, Chris knew exactly what he was thinking. Today was going to be an awesome day. Allowing Josh to hold the AR: "Be very careful," Chris instructed. "I have the safety on, but keep your fingers off the trigger at all times."

Taking the time to examine it closely—feeling the weight, rummaging his hands over the metal—Josh looked down at the SPAS still in its case, and said, "Shit, man. Where did you get that?"

Seeing the interest written on his friend's face, Chris brought it out, keeping the muzzle flashed on the ground. "This? I bought it a good while ago from a pawn shop for about two hundred and fifty. I have to keep them in the trunk 'cause Ash doesn't want them inside—somethin' about them being dangerous, y'know how Ash is."

"That sucks, bro," Josh replied. "Ashley's always been a bit of a killjoy."

Chris smirked and was unable to hold his laughter. "Now that's the fucking truth." They then returned the firearms back into their respected cases, and Chris closed the boot, lightly scraping his fingers over the doors before leading himself to the front of the car. "Ready to go?" he asked, getting into the driver's seat. "We're gonna take them bad boys out to the range and give 'em some love. Think you got what it takes to be a real man?"

Josh scoffed, opening the passenger side, and getting in. "You're really asking me that, dude? You know I was the best fucking marksman in high school. Bro . . . I got this."

"Pellet guns don't count, asshole," Chris replied dryly, but far from seriously. He decided to tune in on the radio, strumming from channel to channel, but nothing good was on. As he put the car into reverse, and drove out onto the highway, he said, "I got some CDs in the backseat. They're in a little silver box. Check 'em out if you want, bro. I got some good shit I know you'll like."

Chris's advice was golden. Josh leaned to the left of where he was sitting, stretching his left arm as far as it could go, fumbling around with the backseat's seat-belt, until the tip of his middle finger grabbed hold to the small, circular piece of plastic Chris had forgotten to cut off, and brought the case to his lap. He then flipped through CD after CD. Chris wasn't lying, he had all the good shit from Avenged Sevenfold to freakin' Third Eye Blind. And no One Direction. Thank, God.

"Dude," Josh exasperated. "You even have Social Distortion. Aren't you something special?" He pulled the disk out of its little pocket and popped it into the player and turned it over to track number three. The drums and guitars blared out, and Josh couldn't stop himself from singing. "Well, high-school seemed like such a blur," he carried on, completely off key. "I didn't have much interest in sports or school elections; and in class I dreamed all day 'bout a rock'n'roll weekend . . ."

Chris gave a sideways glance to his buddy and turned the music up. "And the girl in the front of the room," he started singing too, "so close, yet so far, y'know she never seemed to notice, that this silly school-boy crush wasn't just pretend . . ."

* * *

The entire ride there was filled with jokes, loud laughter, and more singing. It was great to know that Josh's recovery was going swell. Chris had been afraid that his friend would never get better. And for a time, he thought he himself wouldn't either. For the most part, Chris was still his nerdy self—other than the increased muscle mass—but after what happened on Blackwood, it made him realize how dangerous the world really was; and if he dreamed of providing a future for him and Ashley, he needed to be smart, steady, and hard as a rock—to protect her and everyone else he loved. To be useless in a dire situation—like when he watched one of the wendigos decapitate the stranger on the mountain—was a horrible feeling. What if it'd been Ashley? She would've died, and he'd be the one burying her body because he'd been unable to stop it. But not now. He _could_ do something about it. To join one of the greatest fighting forces in the world—he'd never be useless again. All he needed to do was try explaining everything to Josh.

Anxious and doubtful, Chris decided to hold off telling him until after they finished at the shooting range. If Josh was to get upset, he might accidentally, without paying attention, fire off the AR or the SPAS-12 and hit someone—which was unlikely; but it wasn't something Chris wanted to take a chance on. Sam had handled the news well, so he assumed Josh would too. Though, if Chris was honest with himself, he was terrified. The military wasn't a game. People died every day for their country, and Chris hoped he wouldn't be one of them. Pain might've been in abundance in his life, but he still wanted to live; however, he knew it had to be done. The last thing he ever wanted to be was a nobody—someone who took the easy way out. In his heart, he wanted, truly, and dearly, to provide a safety net for Ashley and the others. Praying to God on a regular basis, he'd ask him to allow him to be the bearer of the world's weight, so that those close to him could live happy, successful lives. That's all he wished.

Toning out the music and Josh's singing, Chris spent the next several minutes pondering this in deep reflection. March was only a mere four months away. There was so much that must be done. Ashley was supposed to start back school in the upcoming spring. A couple of months ago, he told her that they'd always be together; but after signing on with the military, he went against that idea, because now they'd be forced apart, and he'd be shipped off to some far away country. Inside his chest beat a heart tempted on staying, but he also knew, that if he went back on his word, he'd have no more respect for himself. The old Chris might've chickened out, but the time for playing chicken was over; and the time to become a man was nigh.

For the longest time, Chris always looked up to Josh. During their time in grade-school, all the girls were crazy about him—though he was a tad bit chubby; he was rich—something Chris aspired to be—and extremely sharp minded when he wanted to be. However, what was once innocence, intelligence, and charisma was now guilt, unconscious ignorance, and dullness—he wasn't the same kid Chris knew in school, nobody was. Mike and Jess were MIA, Emily and Matt probably detested everyone, and Sam—well, she was making ends meet. Somewhat. Chris tried not to pry in on her life too much; he knew she was a very independent person, and she never really enjoyed talking about herself—even Ashley patted herself on the back every now and again. He often wondered what was truly going on inside Sam's head. Going by appearances, she acted like nothing had happened. Maybe, it was denial. Maybe, the only way she could cope was by forgetting, because she never muttered a word about what happened. And, to Chris's knowledge, she wasn't seeing a shrink, no medications—it was as if she was acting like she was never there to begin with.

It was worrisome.

He just knew she had to be bottling up all that anger inside; and, from experience, Chris understood how debilitating that could be if not treated properly. Anger only feeds into hatred and hatred feeds into bitterness. And, before you even know what hit you, your entire life crumbles into a sloppy mess—a mess that you caused, blaming someone only worsening your state. The volcano that was Sam's psyche was bound to erupt sometime, and Chris only hoped that if, or when, it happened, she'd be willing to call him, Ashley, Josh, and possibly the others, for help.

* * *

They'd been riding for almost thirty minutes when Chris took a sharp left onto a narrow street, drove for another mile or two, and turned again after coming to a short gravel road leading into an empty parking lot. He parked close to the sidewalk; in the meantime, Josh hovered a critical stare over at the range. Originally, he thought it was going to be indoors, but was surprised, and sorta excited, that it was actually outdoors. It was divided into ten rows, one for each person, though you was allowed to shoot in groups—but what fun was that? Taking turns was for chumps.

The only part that resembled anything close to a building was the small cubical near the entrance. It was difficult to tell from their current distance, but Josh believed he saw an old man sitting behind a glass window pane, decorated with a slot so that, Josh assumed, he could give them their permission slips, stating they were allowed to use the range, and that they accepted all safety protocols.

Chris exited the vehicle, followed immediately by Josh, who was in some sort of trance. Not for a second did he let his eyes stray from the targets that looked like tiny black dots in an open field. "We're going to be shooting at those?" he asked nervously. The expression on his face made Chris chuckle.

"Yeah," he said, opening the trunk, and grabbing both cases. He smirked. "If you want to call a quits, man, that's up to you; but don't expect any sympathy." He then shoved the AR's case into Josh chest and dropped it into his arms. "I thought you was a top-tier marksman."

Letting out a slight groan, quiet enough so nobody heard, he gripped the handle on the case, watched Chris slam shut the boot, and said, "You really think I'd back out now?" He laughed, as if trying to reassure himself. "Man you don't have a clue what you're in for. I'm going to shoot circles around your ass." He made a pistol shape with his left hand and pretended to fire it off, blowing on the tip of his finger as if he was in an old western movie.

All Chris did was roll his eyes. "Give me a sec," he said, opening the backseat for a minute, grabbing and putting on a black cap from the floorboard. He adjusted the bill until the sun no longer blinded him. Might've gave one to Josh too if he had an extra—he didn't. "Alright." He patted Josh's sweaty shoulder-blade. "Let's roll, cowboy."

"Yee-haw!" Josh shrieked. Walking briskly, the two of them looked like a pair of double agents from some cheaply made spy flick—only making them look more so when Josh put on his sunglasses. "So, do you come here often?" he asked, wishing to keep their conversations flowing.

Without looking back, scraping off the sticky fluid under his brow, Chris replied: "Shit, dude. I dunno. Have to be at least three times a month; and that's not counting the other ones I go to—this one's just my favorite. Plus, I thought you could use some time out—get your juices flowing, nothing does that better than guns." Glancing behind him, he smirked. " Oh, and try not to beat someone up this time. I'd hate to have to put you down."

Josh bulked up to the challenge, expanding his chest like a gorilla. "Now see here see," he mimicked, to the best of his ability, a line from an old mafia movie he saw years ago, "we's gonna have a problem, see, if you's gonna keep speakin' to me like 'dat, see. You's betta' get what I'm talkin' here. You's got it, Little Willy?"

Chris raised a skeptic brow. "Really, bro? You're going with _that_ movie?" He shook his head disapprovingly, but Josh continued despite him doing so.

"You's betta' talk to me like ya mean it, see. Ain't playin' no games, see." What was once movie lines were now being improvised by Josh. There wasn't a thing on the planet Chris wanted to do more right then than to smack him upside the head.

Sighing, Chris took off his cap, and glared at Josh dramatically, squeezing his cheeks and lips so he looked like some doped up mafia drug lord. "You ain't given me no respect, Smokes . . ."—he tried his best not to slip up on his laughter—"Now, you betta' be getting' on ya way—else Imma gonna kick your lumpy ass off this fuckin' roof."

Josh's face broadened. "That's betta'," he said. "Guess ya won't be sleepin' with da fishes tonight, eh Little Willy?"

Chris didn't respond verbally, but he was thinking it. _If he says another thing in that fuckin' voice, I'm going to line him up right in front of the target and start shooting._

They arrived at the entrance, and Chris lightly tapped on the window for the man in the cubicle to hear. Like a rocket, he popped up from the magazine he was reading—closer inspection by Josh revealed that it was the _Hunter's Digest_. Typical. The elderly man smiled a good, yellow smile, his jaw sharp as a pin, and locked like a set of bars. "What can I do for you, fellas?" he asked in a deep country twang. Upon recognizing Chris's familiar face: "Oh, my boy, Chris. Ain't seen you 'round these parts in a long time." He glanced down at the cases the two of them held. "Guess you comin' to shoot up the place?" That last sentence instantly made Josh like him: his sarcastic grin, his interesting accent . . . all around a decent individual—the kind you'd share a beer and a hot Friday afternoon with.

"Yeah," replied Chris, gesturing to Josh in a wide hand motion. "Josh," he said, "this here is Billy Martin, but we call him Billy The Kid—he's a damn good shot for an old sack of shit."

Laughing, Billy reached down beside himself and pulled out three cans of Budweiser from a blue cooler. "Here's somethin' to get yer trigger fingers poppin." Along with their permits, he slid the two cans of beer out the slot. "Make sure you go over them rules with 'im before ya start." He eyed Josh critically. "You ever shot a gun before, boy? It don't tickle like some tight lass on yer cock—but it's sure as hell just as excitin."

Vulgar. Disgusting. Josh was liking him more and more. "I know my way around a trigger," Josh shared, equally as serious as the expression Billy The Kid was giving him.

"That's what I like to hear, son—now go on, get poppin." After they took their leave, Billy returned to his magazine. Old man must've really loved his hunting—it was something Josh himself was curious about. He wondered if Chris would ever be willing to take him during the winter. Kill a deer and send the picture to Sam. So evil and yet so funny. Would've made for the perfect Christmas card.

 _Dear Sam,_ Josh thought about what it would say. _It's starting to feel a lot like hunting season this year!_ Something like that. Though he didn't stay on that subject for long because Chris led them over to lanes two and three. "Put the AR case on the table," he instructed.

A few paces from the lanes themselves were at least ten out stretched tables. The one Chris pointed to was the only one without a bow, knife, or rifle on it. Josh listened and laid the AR down, but he had to ask, as Chris opened both cases: "What are those guns for?"

Chris looked up and scanned the several tables loaded with firearms surrounding them. "Oh, those? They're for anyone who doesn't bring their own gear, but it costs a shit ton. Special permits allow you to toss grenades, but don't waste your time trying to get one. They wouldn't let a lunatic like you within one hundred yards of a fucking cherry-bomb." He silently smirked to himself, picturing the evil glare Josh was bestowing upon him from behind.

"Fuck you, man," he mumbled, but Chris still heard him.

"You wish, dickweed."

After reading off the rules from the sign staged right beside them, and putting in their earbuds, Chris started his lessons on the basics of shooting a high powered rifle. The AR was perfect for a beginner—he'd even gone so far as to buy an expensive red dot sight for it. "Steady," he instructed. "Make sure you breathe. The bullet will go where the dot is."

"Shh," Josh hissed, aiming down the scope—Chris darkened—"I got this under control." Inhaling, he placed the dot on the head of the human-shaped target. "Line your shot up," Chris continued giving his tips, whether Josh listened to them or not.

 _Boom!_ The first round shot off faster than a rocket, zipping down the field in less than a second, though Josh couldn't tell if he hit the target or not. His heart was beating a million miles a second. It was _exactly_ how Chris said: absolutely amazing—to be holding such a fantastic weapon . . . he fired several more times until the clip was empty.

Chris then took it from him, the muzzle pointed at the ground, clicking the safety. "Always make sure the safety is on when you're not aiming down the range," he said, swapping places with Josh. He loaded the next mag, checking to make sure it was in good and snug, aimed, and shot ten quick, fluent rounds. You could literally hear the pop as every single one hit the target.

"Now that's what's up, cochise." Josh brought his hand out for a high-five. "Fuckin' badass, man. You've come a long way since back in the old days—thought you'd always be a little pussy."

Frowning at the snarky comment, Chris still gave him a high-five. "Alright, asshole, let's see what you got left in that baby tank of yours."

Josh chuckled, following up by snatching the AR right out of Chris's hands, grumbling. "A challenge, eh? Okay, okay." He nodded his head sheepishly and rested his eyes back onto the red dot. "We'll see who's laughing after I put ten shots right down the middle."

 _Bang! Bang! Bang!_

Ten shots, but sounded like only six of them hit—they'd know for sure once they headed downfield to see how many holes they'd managed to put into it. It wasn't as flawless as Chris—Josh knew this, but he would never admit it—but he remained proud of himself. "Hey," he said, giving up the weapon again. "Six is better than five, right?"

"Sure, man, whatever you say." Chris's tone was getting cocky. Without any effort at all, he pulled back the trigger in much faster succession. Again, all ten rounds sounded as if they'd hit the exact same spot every single time. And he was only getting warmed up. His intentions weren't to boast, but after working so hard for so many days, it couldn't hurt to show off a little bit. Though, knowing Josh, he'd never say that Chris was a superior marksman. Maybe, he would have better luck with the SPAS-12 because that was the next weapon that was pulled out, after Chris returned the AR back inside its locked case.

Using his index finger, he led Josh's eyes to each individual part: the pump, the sights, the barrel, the safety lock, etc. "This is gonna have a ton more kick to it than the AR. Don't jam it into your shoulder," he explained. As an example, he went over to lane four (they'd be shooting here since the targets were much closer) rested the stock snugly into position, and fired pump shot after pump shot.

"Not bad, not bad," Josh said teasingly. "Let an ol' pro show you how it's done." Breathing deep, he raised the shotgun, his feet shoulder length apart, his hands steady, and squeezed the trigger. The recoil jolted him back a couple of inches; he nearly dropped it, but somehow managed to hang on with dear life. But when the smoke cleared, Josh realized that he'd missed, there was a big mound of uprooted grass and dirt from where the shell ended up going. Cursing beneath his breath, he heard Chris laughing in the background. Glaring, Josh said, "It was my first shot! Watch this . . ." Once more, he raised the shotgun, squared up his feet, inhaled slowly, his hands steady as a rock, and pulled the trigger.

 _Bang!_ He'd leaned most of his weight against the stock—thought it might help his accuracy. It didn't. Ultimately, he'd missed again. "Shit!" he growled angrily. Chris burst into laughter.

"Dude—" he tried, but couldn't stop laughing. Stumbling, he rested his hand on Josh's shoulder—his face red like a cherry due to the heat and the grin on his face. Sweat dripped down into his eyes, and so he used his fingers to dig into his eyelashes. "I'm not gonna lie, man, but you fuckin' suck major donkey balls at this."

Josh shoved him, angrily taking off his sunglasses and forcing them into his pocket. "Whatever," he mumbled. "A bug flew into my eye."

"If you say so, bro," Chris replied sarcastically, prying the weapon from his buddy's fingers, turning the safety on, and began reloading. He glanced up every other second to see if Josh was still glaring at him. For the first couple of glances he was, but stopped once the SPAS was fully loaded, and Chris took his spot on the range. "Watch closely," he said, aiming the weapon.

 _Asshole,_ Josh thought. _I don't need your help._ Frowning, he leaned back on the table, remembering the beer Billy gave him—he wondered what the old coot was doing now. It must've been boring sitting in a cubicle all day. When Chris finished, Josh tossed him his beer. "Thirsty?" he asked; telling by the thankful look on Chris's face, he was parched.

"Thanks, man," he said, setting the shotgun down, and leaned his lower back against the table, right beside Josh. They clicked open their cans, and a buttery, delicious aroma saturated their noses. Smiling, Chris raised his can high up in the air. "A toast," he said; Josh raised his can too.

"A toast to what?" he asked.

Chris shrugged. "I dunno. I've never made one—looks pretty cool in the movies though. Uh . . ." he thought quietly to himself, their drinks remaining in the air. "Alright," an idea came to him. "A toast to guns, girls, and a good time!"

"Sounds good to me," Josh replied. They then clanked their cans together, and, without wasting any time, chugged them down as if they'd never drink a cold beer again.

* * *

It was late afternoon by the time they finished, and the orange sun was perched high in the cloudless sky. "I think we ought to call it a day," Chris said, closing the gun cases, handing one of them to Josh who couldn't agree more—he was exhausted.

"Where to next, cochise?" he asked.

"Thought we could stop by somewhere to eat," Chris replied, walking briskly back to his car.

"See you boys later," Billy The Kid shouted from his cubicle. "Drive safe now, yer hear?"

They both waved goodbye, and, after placing the cases back into the trunk, got into the Toyota Fusion; but, before leaving, Chris took off his cap and reached over to the passenger side, opening the glove compartment. Not much was in there, except for a few sheets of paper and remnants of a Hershey wrapper. Josh wondered what Chris was looking for, though didn't have enough time to ask when he was given a small packet.

"What's this?" Josh read over the words. Marine Corps. Raising his brow in confusion, he looked over at Chris, who was deathly quiet, and staring off into the distance. "Where'd you get it?"

Slowly, and without looking at him, Chris said: "I got it from the recruitment center." Closing his eyes, he waited anxiously for Josh's response. "I'll be shipping out in March to Parris Island."

The explanation came, but Josh didn't hear it—well, he heard it, but he didn't understand it. He choked on his response several times, each time choking harder and harder. Thoughts popped into his head: military, Chris, Marine Corps, killing, war . . . they were disoriented and made little sense. Attempting to calm his racing mind, Josh leaned over and stared into Chris's eyes. The blue in them were like little waves of silenced anger and aggression. Then it came to him. The packet, him practicing marksmanship, his shaved head . . . Chris was going into the Marine Corps in March—and Josh hadn't realized it until now.

"You—" he stuttered. Images broke through into his brain—images of missiles, bullets, war, and death, so much death. No. No. Chris couldn't do this. Not this. He wasn't tough enough; he was a nerd; a glorious, safe nerd. The military? Before Josh even knew it, he was gasping for air, it was as if a stake had been thrust into his chest. Chris couldn't die. He wouldn't let him. "Why?" he begged; for some reason he felt wet in his eyes. "Don't you know people die in the Marine Corps? Are you fucking insane?"

"Josh," Chris spoke calmly. "You don't need to worry. I'll be fine. I thought you'd be happy for me. I'm doing it for you guys." He smiled weakly. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," Josh breathed—no—his eyebrows burrowed into downward slants, processing the difficult information skeptically. "Are you sure your name's Chris? I thought you wanted to work on computers and stuff like that. What the hell changed your mind? The military isn't you, man. It isn't."

Chris gripped the steering wheel. "The mountain," he said sternly, "that's what happened." He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of his breathing, remembering the incident, remembering telling Ashley about his commitment to going overseas.

"Why?" she'd asked the same question, except her face had been soiled in warm tears. "Why would you do this to us? Damn it, Chris—"

"Ash," he remembered whispering, gingerly taking her hands into his; she pushed away, covering her soaked eyes with her fingers. "I did it for you!" he shouted, growing steadily angrier, but she only cried harder. "Fuck, Ash." He wrapped himself around her, bringing her in close. "Please, stop crying."

She couldn't. The longer he held her, the more she shook, the more she squabbled, trying to piece words together to say something. He kissed her forehead. "Ash . . . listen to me," he said, holding her cheek in his hand—it hurt him to see those beautiful green orbs staring back at him. "I _have_ to do this. Don't you understand? Damn it—" Little drops of tears rolled down his cheek. "Please, Ash," he said softly, kissing her lips. "Don't cry. Everything will be okay. You need to trust me."

"I do trust you, but—" she sobbed. "You're going to get yourself killed." Her voice broke as horrible thoughts of attending his funeral—his casket wrapped up in red, white, and blue—rummaged through her mind. "How could you?" she squeaked, saying it again: "How could you . . ."

Chris tore away from the painful memories, returning to the present with Josh sitting in the passenger seat. "Are you okay, man?" he heard him ask. "You kinda zoned out there for a second."

Shaking his head, Chris turned the key and cranked the car. "No," he replied. "I'm fine. Listen," he turned and looked Josh directly in the eye. "I know this is a lot to take in right now, but,"—Josh's expression tightened—"I need to know that my best friend will be there for me when I need him."

"Shit, man," Josh grumbled—the news remained shocking, but he was slowly reaching a better understanding and appreciation for Chris's decision. Thinking back to Blackwood Mountain, he suddenly realized that he'd been the sole reason as to why Chris decided to join in the first place. _It's my fault,_ he thought solemnly, though he wouldn't allow his friend to see the present guilt written across his face. "Okay," he finally acknowledged. "I'm behind you one hundred percent." He smirked, trying to replace the clutch inside his chest with laughter. "You've grown up so fast," he sighed, wiping a fake tear from his lower eyelid. "Daddy is so proud."

Chris chuckled at that and gave Josh a hard one on the shoulder. "Asshole," he seethed playfully, smiling wide—Josh smiled back. He then put the car into reverse, adjusted his rear-view mirror, and drove back onto the highway, taking a left, followed by multiple rights.

Within the next hour or so, after eating at Taco Bell—Josh's pick—Chris strolled up to the Washington's driveway. The garage was closed, and Melinda was sitting on the porch-swing reading a book, waiting for them, as the sun slowly dipped behind the pink horizon. The air was sweet and inviting, and the wind was as pleasant as the rose garden in the front yard. Chris got out alongside Josh and walked the few steps up to the porch. He waved. "Good evening, Mrs. Washington."

"Oh, Chris, you can just call me Melinda," she told him, closing her book. "Would you like to come inside? I fixed some brownies."

He shook his head, lightly addressing the steps with his right foot. "I wish I could," he said, "but Ashley's probably home waiting for me. She gets worried if I'm out for too long. Thanks for letting me pick him up this morning."

"Oh, it's no problem." She gave her son a sideways look. "And I'm sure Josh didn't mind."

"Yeah, man," he interjected. "Today was awesome. We oughtta do it again sometime."

Chris agreed. "Just shoot me a text whenever," he said, taking his first couple of steps down. "Oh yeah, I forgot, but Ash told me to tell you that she has a surprise waiting for you."

Josh's expression changed into confusion. Weird. "Really?" he asked. "What kind of surprise?"

Walking backwards through the yard, heading toward his car, Chris shrugged. "It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you." He turned around and jumped into the driver seat, holding up a peace out sign with his fingers before closing the car door, and drove off.

* * *

 _ **November 15th 2016 Monday**_

 _ **Josh**_

Josh stood on the porch watching Chris's Toyota roll out of the driveway until it eventually disappeared. "Huh. I wonder what he meant by surprise," he thought aloud—assuming she actually did buy him something.

"Let's go in," Melinda suggested, opening the door. Josh proceeded to follow her inside.

Later that same night he decided to text Sam to see what she was up to. He hadn't talked to her all day, so he figured he owed her that much, especially since she helped bail him out of jail. He sat in his bed after a warm shower, laptop plugged in, listening to some music on his headphones.

 _Josh: Me and Chris went to the range today._

 _Sam: Aw. Did you get to shoot big-boy guns?_

 _Josh: Hell yeah I did. Not gonna lie, I totally wrecked his ass—shooting three pointers all day._

 _Sam: I'm pretty sure that's basketball, dummy._

 _Josh: Basketball, guns, they're all the same. Nothing is too much for The Josh._

 _Sam: Well, "The Josh" better get some sleep tonight. I've got you tomorrow, champ._

 _Josh: What, are you and Chris passing me around like a joint or something?_

 _Sam: Pretty much, yeah. You're our wittle baby boy._

 _Josh: Well, this wittle baby is hungry. I hope you don't mind breastfeeding in public._

 _Sam: As a matter of fact, I think any woman should be allowed to breastfeed in public. People need to stop being so judgmental._

 _Josh: Yes, wise master, Sam. We should all aspire to be more like you. I'm sure the chickens would be thankful._

 _Sam: Bock-bock. That's thank you in chikenese._

 _Josh: What about cock-cock? What does that mean?_

 _Sam: That means you're a pervert._

 _Josh: Sure, the girl who thinks breastfeeding in public is okay calls me a pervert. My bullshit radar is going through the roof. I gotta joke for you. Why did the chicken cross the road?_

 _Sam: Shut up._

 _Josh: C'mon just guess. I know you want to._

 _Sam: Fine, whatever. To get to the other side?_

 _Josh: No. To ask Sam: why the hell didn't you tell me Chris was going into the Marine Corps?_

 _Sam: I already told you why. He wanted to tell you himself, which, I'm guessing, he did._

 _Josh: Yeah, and it nearly gave me a heart attack. Does he even know what he's getting into? They'll break him the first day._

 _Sam: I think you need to put more faith into him._

 _Josh: I do have faith in him; it's just—why the military? Why not something more suited to him? Like computers and shit. He's a nerd for a reason. A buff nerd, but a nerd nonetheless._

 _Sam: I really don't know. It's something you'll have to ask him yourself. Honestly, I think he's confused. He doesn't know what to do with his life. Me and Ash were talking about it yesterday. She told me he's been super stressed since meeting with his recruiter._

 _Josh: Well, duh, anyone would be stressed. It's the fucking military. I dunno about you, but I'm quite fond of living, and I don't think I'll be sacrificing myself for the greater good no time soon._

 _Sam: I guess that's where you and Chris differ. He believes he's doing the right thing, protecting all of us. I don't know._

 _Josh: Still unbelievable. Can't imagine how Ash must be taking it._

 _Sam: She seems to be doing okay. I do worry for her though._

 _Josh: Yeah, me too. Oh, by the way, do you know anything about Ashley's little surprise for me?_

 _Sam: It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you._

 _Josh: I had a feeling you was going to say that._

 _Sam: lol. I'm gonna head to bed. It's SUPER late and I had a long day today._

 _Josh: Doing what?_

 _Sam: Another time maybe._

 _Josh: Oh, I see. Super-secret Sam-I-Am. Got it._

 _Sam: Goodnight._

 _Josh: Adios amigo._

He laid there listening to his music, tapping his hands to the beat of the drums. Already, he'd sorted out a plan for the following weeks. Operation Apologize To Everyone was a go. And he went to sleep with this same positive mindset.


	4. Chapter 4 Part 1

**A/N: Due to the size of this chapter, I have split it up into two parts. Enjoy.**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 4 Part 1**

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **8:07 am**_

 _ **Sam**_

The weather outside was delightful. The traffic? Not so much.

In a vast ocean of red cars, yellow cars, gray cars, etc., Sam sat not so very patiently behind her steering wheel. It was early Tuesday morning—a few minutes past eight—and the lane she was in was backed up for several blocks.

"C'mon you fucks," she seethed, balling up her left hand into a fist, and beating it three times against the dashboard. A shame her temper tantrum didn't move the traffic forward—if that'd been the case, she'd been more than willing to break her hand.

Nearby—no more than a couple of yards away—glancing over her right shoulder, was a small communion of protesters; their signs ranged anywhere from _Impeach Donald Trump_ to talking about the serious issues of abortion and gay rights. Though she tried to look away, Sam's eyes remained glued, their chants repetitively ramming inside her eardrums like an obnoxious melody. Personally, she couldn't care less about politics—the life she lived was stressful enough; there was no reason for her to tag on the weight of the entire country.

Squinting her eyes, she could only make out a couple of their faces. The majority appeared to be young men—some looking not a day over seventeen. Four of them had their faces covered with bandannas and goggles; and they were walking sporadically on the sidewalk, some branching out as far as the road itself. And then something clicked in Sam's head. It wasn't a wreck or anything like that ruining the flow of traffic—forcing people to be late for work—instead it was a serviceable size of picket signs and angry men and women standing in the middle of the expressway.

Hoping to pass the time, she unbuckled herself, scooted her seat backwards, giving her legs plenty of room to move around, and turned on the radio. She then adjusted the sound until she no longer heard those shouting outside, figuring that the cars behind her were doing the same thing. Chasing thoughts around in her mind, she pulled out her cellphone, read over the message sent from her mother about an hour ago, and thumbed down to Josh's contact, stopping. She silently sat there, a blank expression on her face, deciding whether or not she should text her mom first or not.

 _Sam (to her mom: Amanda Giddings): Traffic's backed up bad because of protests. How was your drive with dad?_

 _Amanda: It went fine. Is everything okay? Nobody's trying to break into your car are they? I'll text Rhonda to come pick you up, and George can come and get your car tonight._

 _Sam: No, mom, it's nothing like that. Traffic's just moving slow is all. I'm fine, promise. I'll be at Josh's soon, and I'll text you when I get there. Love you._

 _Amanda: Love you too, baby. Be careful._

Sighing deeply and shaking her head at her mother's extreme overprotective demeanor, Sam reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a piece of gum. And when she glanced back up, she was glad to see that the line had moved forward a couple of meters. Putting the car into drive, she lightly pressed down on the gas, arriving to her destination behind a yellow truck, only about twenty feet from her original spot; furthermore happier that she was slowly edging her way out of the protest zone.

If concluded calculations were correct, she'd arrive at Josh's house within the next hour or two—probably would've already been there if not for the traffic acting up so badly. _If they're in your way, fucking run them over,_ she thought maniacally. Of course, she'd _never_ promote violence of any kind against anyone in any way, shape, or form—her thoughts were only thoughts after all, no matter how messed up they were.

Gritting her teeth, she laid her phone down on the passenger seat. It was burning up; so she twisted the little knob for the AC to max, and clumsily slid out of her jacket, tossing it into the back. Once gathered and cooled off, she returned to her phone and sent a message explaining herself to Josh.

 _Sam: I was aiming to be there by nine, but I'm running late. Traffic's a fucking crime right now. Thought I'd go ahead and text you beforehand so you'd know to get ready._

 _Josh: I gotta give it to you, Sammy, you actually make an effort to inform me that you're coming. Yesterday, Chris showed up out of nowhere. I coulda swore he fell from the sky. So, where is it we're going?_

 _Sam: Well, since you're banned from Callbe's for life, I thought we could take a pleasant stroll through the park and admire nature._

 _Josh: Seriously?_

 _Sam: Seriously._

 _Josh: You have the worst fucking ideas out of anyone I've ever known. "Nature?" Who the hell cares about that? Other than you, weirdo._

 _Sam: And you're the biggest asshole out of anyone I've ever known. Guess we're both weirdos; but I'm pretty sure you're a lot weirder than I am._

 _Josh: You wish, Ms. Cheerleader. To think that people say I have an inflated ego. You love riding on that virtue train don't ya? Choo-choo. Chugga-chugga-chugga—bitch!_

 _Sam: lol. I wish you was in the car with me right now, you'd get a kick from some protesters—they got their little signs and everything. I sometimes wonder if they even know what they're protesting._

 _Josh: Damn it! I can't believe I'm missing out. What do the signs say?_

 _Sam: Y'know, the usual. One said Dump The Trump or something like that. That doesn't sound like too bad of an idea._

 _Josh: Better him than Hillary fuckin' Clinton._

 _Sam: Why are we even on this stupid topic? I'm changing it. So, where do you want to go? We've got the entire world at our disposal —well, the entire world up to thirty miles._

 _Josh: Hmm . . . I might have to get back to you on that. I shall contemplate this as I step into the portal of renewal and wash the filth of this world away._

 _Sam: Lemme guess. The shower?_

 _Josh: Damn it, spoiled again. Better wash my shorts while I'm at it._

 _Sam: Gross._

 _Josh: Noted._

Her car didn't pull up to their driveway until a quarter past nine. Looking at herself through the mirror, she adjusted her hair, swabbed over a thin lair of chap stick to combat her flaky lips, glanced down at her phone for a moment, and exited the vehicle. Greeting her was the Washington's grand estate—with all its ornaments and belongings; it was a house fit for only the richest of families.

The door itself, she noted standing there, ringing the bell, was probably more expensive than her crappy little Honda; and she knew fully well that Josh would probably say something sarcastic about it. The old thing was beat up—costed about 1,000 dollars—and had at least a million miles on it. But her mind gradually wondered off the topic as she waited patiently for someone to answer the door.

Meanwhile, inside the house, Josh and his mother were sharing a space inside their living room, watching the morning news. Funnily enough, the news reporter was talking about the protests that were happening—the ones Sam had talked about—when they heard a car enter their driveway, followed smoothly by the ringing of the house's doorbell.

Josh answered it while Melinda continued to watch television, flipping the channel over to something more suitable for their guest (Animal Planet.) Opening the door, Josh played a welcoming smile, but that smile quickly morphed into something a little more upon seeing the beautiful young woman that was Samantha Giddings: her blonde hair decorating her scalp in its traditional fashion, a simple, yet elegant bun, fancying a red-yellowish shirt, a classic pair of jeans, and a pair of worn sneakers.

"Wow, Sammy," Josh said playfully, "you look great. Maybe," he pried, smirking, "you could show me how great you look under—" She punched him in the arm. "Ow!" he cried, rubbing the sore spot. "What was that for?"

Rolling her eyes without any concern on Josh's part, she said dryly, "You know _exactly_ what it was for," and strolled by his speechless figure and into the Washington household. Melinda hadn't moved an inch from her spot on the couch, so upon seeing Samantha, she waived gaily.

"It's so good to see you again, Samantha," the woman said, offering consolation within an inquisitive type of twinkle in her eyes. "I've been meaning to thank you for being there for me and Josh after the incident at Callbe's." Casting a look of diligence at her son, she expected him to carry on the conversation with a most wanted thank you as well.

"Yeah, Sammy," he said, understanding the look—he was in the kitchen—"you really pulled through for me." His lips tightened in a sarcastic manner. "You da the best girlfriend in da whole entire world!"

Sam frowned and then scowled. "And you're the best ass—" remembering Melinda, she stopped herself. "What I meant to say was . . ." she said, saving herself from embarrassment, and possibly a stern talking to about how it's not polite to curse—she sighed—"You're very welcome." Her smile returned, and she gave them both a caring little bow. "I know I'm da best,"—to Josh—"and you better not ever forget it."

Only ten minutes were spent in the presence of Melinda; the two teens left rather quickly, and Josh, as soon as he entered Sam's car, started laughing. "Where the hell did you buy this piece of shit? From some hooker down the road?" He shivered when he saw the big gaping hole swallowing the dashboard. It was like an abyss for spiders, and God knew what else, to hide and build a society in.

"Quit your complaining," Sam chastised, giving a single glance at the hole Josh was talking about. "And I've already checked in there, so you don't have to worry about any goblins jumping out or anything."

Josh chuckled. "How long did that take? Five months of constant exploration? I don't even think Mariana's Trench goes that deep."

"Why don't I cram your head down it, and you can tell me how deep it goes?" She cocked an annoyed brow, feeling the urge to sigh and shake her head. "Are you done hating on my car? Can we go now, your majesty?"

"Not yet," Josh said. He opened the glove compartment and fiddled around with the sheets of paper stuffed inside.

"What the hell are you looking for?" Sam asked, her hands lightly scraping over the steering wheel and then the car's gear, tempted on putting it into reverse and rearing backwards at a speed fast enough for Josh to hit his head on the dash, but she fought back the urge, and instead went with silent, angry staring. "There's nothing in there," she told him, but he didn't seem to listen.

"Shut up," he fired back, his hands steadily growing more and more frantic, tearing through pamphlet after pamphlet, sheet of paper after sheet of paper. "Every girl has them in their car somewhere," he mumbled. "Ah-hah!" After several long seconds of searching, he pulled out, flashing it high in the air, a pair of ancient looking zebra striped sunglasses. Layer over layer of dust had accumulated over the lenses, but that didn't keep Josh from wiping them on his shirt and putting them on his face.

"Heh, how do I look?" he asked childishly.

"Really?" Sam said. "I don't even remember where I got those."

Josh shrugged. "They probably belonged to someone who used to own this piece of junk." He strapped himself in tightly, lightly tapping the dashboard with his fingers excitedly, refusing to take off the glasses. Sam continued to glare at him. "What are you waiting for?" he asked, raising the shades above his eyebrows. "Let's hit the road."

Putting the car into reverse, Sam mumbled, "I'm gonna hit something alright," but Josh didn't hear it, mumbling even quieter: "and it's gonna be slapping those damn shades right off your face."

"Did you say something, Sammy?" he questioned.

"Nope," she replied, faking a smile. "Nothing except for how cool you look in those glasses."

Without knowing her true thoughts—which were: _he looks like some dirty male stripper—_ he chuckled boyishly, catching a small glimpse of the sudden frown on her face, but thinking nothing of it, saying, "Damn straight!" and turned on the radio to make the experience all the more better.

* * *

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **7:30 am**_

 _ **Chris**_

Chris knew perfectly well what today's schedule foretold: breakfast at eight, the gym at nine, Walmart and lunch at eleven, spend some time with Ashley before she went to work at three, and finally, after not seeing him for what felt like a century, spend some time with an old friend: Matt, who, for over a month, had seemingly vanished from existence, both him and Emily—though Chris was told multiple times that Emily wasn't going to be there to see him. Matt never gave him a solid reason why, but speculation led to the assumption that she didn't want anything to do with him, or, more notably, Ashley.

Breakfast was the usual: low fat peanut-butter toast, a stack of lightly dashed cinnamon apples, a kale and blueberry smoothie, two eggs, and a brown bowl of oatmeal mixed with protein powder. Easily one of his favorite meals of the day; but after getting so caught up savoring his food, and when he looked at the clock, he realized he was ten minutes behind schedule. Urgently, he crammed whatever he had left on his plate down his throat, grabbed his bottle of water, gym bag, and quietly opened the bedroom door.

Ashley was still sleeping, the pattern of her breaths calm and nurturing, like a little girl having a wonderful dream about rainbows and whatever else little girls dreamed about. He leaned over and kissed her forehead sweetly, and her body reacted to it with a few unexpected mumbles and rolling over, wrapping herself into the covers. It was hard for him not to simply drop his bag, forget the gym, and lay with her, which would have been against his better judgment, and so he heeded that judgment and hurried out the door and down the railing to his car.

A rain came the previous night while he was snuggled up in bed with Ashley sleeping. Everything, from the green grass to the bark on the trees, glimmered with a certain kind of dampness that happens after a well placed rain; and the doors and windows on the car were dripping with fat droplets of water—leading to the conclusion that it had only recently stopped, obvious by the white fog lingering around him.

Once on the highway, keeping a constant speed of sixty miles an hour, he shifted through his gym bag in the seat close to him, and felt when his fingers wrapped around the rectangular shape of his android phone. The cover picture was taken during their trip to Disney World in Orlando Florida (it was a simple snapshot of them standing with Mickie Mouse inside the Magic Kingdom Theme Park.) The photo had been taken by Ashley's mom, who had also went with them.

Glancing back and forth from his texts to Ian to the road was not easily accomplished. Most of the drivers at this time were usually gray headed and covered in wrinkles. Their sloppy attempts at the wheel stressed Chris out on numerous occasions; he often thought that if they couldn't see ten feet ahead of themselves, then they shouldn't be allowed to share the road with other drivers. One solution he'd came up with in the past was for the government to create a specially designed old person lane so the old coots could drive as slowly, and as crookedly, as they wanted. It was an idea only thought of during a session of fantasizing.

 _Chris (to Ian): Gonna be a couple minutes late, bro. Make sure you keep the bench nice and warm for me 'till I get there._

 _Ian: Ah, so now you've decided to show up? Where you been at chicken-shit? Your ass wasn't anywhere to be seen yesterday. You ready to get your ass whooped in the ring?_

 _Chris: There isn't a way in hell you're going to kick my ass. Fuckin' ramen noodles got bigger arms than you, bitch._

 _Ian: F-U-C-K YOU. Keep talking your smack, man, we'll see how far that gets you when I knock your wimpy ass flat._

Chris never texted him back his rebuttal; he'd been heading that way for almost twenty five minutes now—thirty if he counted all the red lights and stop signs he passed—and he'd been half expecting the gym to be packed full; but was pleasantly surprised when he saw a parking lot of only eight cars, one of them being Ian's, which was a black 2016 Chevrolet Camaro. Chris parked right beside it and got out. As he walked across the lot, the smell of burnt tire leather fiddling around inside his nose, a yellow streak of lightning flashed somewhere high up in the dark clouds, and was followed by several enormous bouts of thunder cascading evenly across the landscape. Rain soon began to fall.

He rushed indoors, using his bag to cover his head, and found Ian waiting for him inside his office. Chris greeted him with a wave and high-five, before going into the locker room and dropping his bag next to a set of blue lockers. The sound of the storm filled the room with extreme clashes of lightning and thunder, who were at war with one another. And the walls were made in such a way that they only amplified the hellish patter sound of raindrops landing on the roof. He dressed down to a workout shirt and shorts, and they met back inside the office.

Ian was doing the same thing he'd been doing when Chris received the call from Ashley a couple of nights ago: writing at his desk, his pencil hand glowing a hot red due to how quickly he moved down each individual page—he seemed to act all in one mindset, only glancing up once to look at Chris sitting in the chair across from him.

"Sorry, man," Ian said. "I've been super fucking busy lately: sending checks, having to fuck around with our new staff—it's all been insane." He allowed the pencil down and rubbed his forehead fiercely. "Go ahead and set up. I'll meet you out there in a couple of minutes." Ian definitely appeared not to be in the best of moods, which wasn't uncommon due to the excessive hours he worked trying to run his brother's business.

Chris didn't know much about Ian's family, except that his mom, Macy Moore, worked as a kindergarten teacher, that his dad, Austin Moore, worked as a mechanic, and that his older brother, James Moore, owned Planet Fitness, granting Ian the title of co-owner. But because of James' love for parties, women, and drinking—even though the business was under his name—Ian was the one mostly running the show, pretty much handling whatever his brother didn't feel like dealing with himself. It was a blessing that Ian enjoyed his job immensely, especially since befriending Chris.

They shared many similarities from their love of technology to their extreme dedication to working out and staying in shape throughout the year; however, beyond their identical personalities, there was an air of respect between them. Both cared deeply for their families, both felt that it was their sworn duty to protect those they knew, and they both tried their best in whatever it was they were doing or trying to accomplish. And it were these few traits that sparked the respect they had for one another.

Chris had already put the weight on the bench by the time Ian showed up. From where they were, they could see thousands of raindrops racing down the glass door. On the left side of the building, near the treadmills, was a young woman stretching, beyond that was a massive black man with arms twice the size of Chris's.

"How much weight you got on?" Ian asked, going around behind the bar, lightly feeling the weight attached on the ends, seeing that the beginning two sets of lead plates were 45 lbs, followed by two smaller ones of 25 lbs, with the bar itself weighing 55 lbs.

Chris was stretching out his arms as he answered Ian's question. "Should be two eighty five," he said, smirking proudly. "Gonna pop ten quick ones and go up to three hundred. I'm feeling the challenge today; time to put your noodle arms to the test, bro." Without another moment to lose, he laid down on the bench, tasting his deep breaths, making sure he was perfectly aligned with the bar, gripping it at shoulder length, and, slowly, but surely, pushed it up off the rack.

Ian stood over him as his spotter, watching how red Chris's face began to get, and finding himself in jealousy. Basically, his max, 250 lbs, was Chris's lightweight; but Ian never saw himself as someone with spaghetti arms—he'd seen too many people come and go who actually did have them, and it made him frown every time someone teased him about it. He counted each repetition in his head, noticing that every inhale and exhale Chris exasperated worked with him as he finished his set.

"Woo!" he shouted, exhausted, and his arms feeling like they'd been run over by a bus. The veins in his chest and forearms bulged out as they pumped blood to his muscles. "That's what I'm talking about," he said, sliding off the bench, getting to his feet, and grabbed two 5 lbs and two 2 ½ lbs. After putting them on, and assuring the clips were on good and snug, so they didn't have to worry about the weights falling off, he returned to his bench position, and followed the same steps he did during the previous set, though this time he took a couple of seconds longer to calm his breathing.

Noticing that Chris was struggling getting the weight off the rack, Ian helped him in the best way he could, by lifting the weight alongside his friend until his arms were in proper form. Allowing another sudden breath to break from his lips, Chris fluently brought the bar down to his chest, and with a loud grunt pushed it up—he went on to do this eight times. Red like tomatoes, his arms burned like utter hell, while his heart beat faster than a locomotive's engine.

"Damn, dude," he heard Ian speak afterwards, the amazement heavy on his tone. "You sure you don't wanna go up some more?"

Chris shook his head. "Nah, man, not yet," he said, standing back to his feet. Right next to the bench rack was a single curling bar harboring one hundred pounds. Submitting to stretching out his back, he bent down and brought it to his waistline, from there he proceeded to curl it up and down with slow, precise form; and he soon found that he couldn't do more than six reps, having to stop on a painful exhale.

Meanwhile, Ian was drinking some of his blue Gatorade, knowing that he would be next once Chris finished his sets, and after that they'd start on intense seven minute pull up intervals, which were Ian's specialty—he might've not been super strong on the weights themselves, but he was a master when it came down to body weight workouts: push ups, pull ups, dips, etc. He could do it all effortlessly and do them seemingly to no end, something he knew Chris aspired to be like.

The next sets were the following: three more sets of 300 lbs, two sets of 305 lbs, and one set of 310 lbs. All of which Chris was able to do within the time span of twenty minutes, taking short forty five second breaks between each one, and using the curling bar to keep the juices flowing. It was an effective way of training, and his entire upper body felt as if it had been stampeded over by elephants, but in the gym world that was a good sign. He wasn't the biggest guy, but he did put on a substantial amount of mass since starting back in February; he learned a lot throughout that time, and made plenty of great new friends, none of them greater than Ian.

Speaking of Ian, Chris helped him remove the plates and stack the bar with 200 lbs exactly. They gave one another critical glares—this would be the first time Ian ever tried for a set of ten with this amount of weight. It was nerve-wrecking and exciting all at the same time; and he only hoped he'd be able to do it and not embarrass himself.

"Alright, man," Chris said, waiting patiently behind the bar for Ian to begin. "We're shooting for ten this round, and we'll go up to two'o'five next." He double checked that the clamps were good and tight, as Ian prepared himself with a couple of warm up stretches, and then got into position on the bench. His long, bony fingers cradled the bar in such a way that only experience weightlifters knew how.

He sucked up as much air as he could, lifting the bar off the rack, and exhaled as he brought it down and then back up. The first couple of reps were effortless, the weight moved at a steady pace, but it was the final three that gave him serious trouble. Sweat ticked down from his forehead; his biceps, triceps, forearms, and chest were set aflame, and he grunted loudly, as Chris spoke words of encouragement. "You got this shit," he repeated. Ian pushed up the eighth rep, exhaled. "C'mon, man, two more." Ian pushed up the ninth rep, exhaled. "One more!" Chris was nearly shouting, hovering his hands around the bar without touching it just in case Ian was unable to dish out the last repetition. Down the weight went, and Ian screamed as he pushed it up for the final time; and Chris immediately helped him return the bar back onto the rack.

Tired and light headed, Ian crumbled to his feet, forcing Chris to catch him so he didn't fall flat on his face. He was breathing as if he'd just finished a marathon. Tingling occurred throughout his muscle fibers, and there was a horrible ache penetrating his chest and arms. But. He did it. Ten solid reps. "Hell yeah!" Ian chanted, the veins in his neck pulsing as he clenched his muscles tightly. "That's what I'm talking about!" Chris met his hand for a high five. Now, it was on to the next set with 205 lbs. And Ian couldn't have been more pumped.

The rest of the workout went without a hitch. Ian managed to push 205 lbs up six times, followed by two sets of 210 lbs for four reps each. By the end of it, most of his juices were flushed; but he continued to carry on like the warrior he believed himself to be. Pull-ups? No problem. After Chris finished his first interval, seven minutes, twenty five pull ups total, Ian jacked himself up with a few extra push ups as his small warm up. He then leaped onto the pull up bar like a monkey and easily dominated with twenty of them within the first three minutes. The bench-press had been utter hell, but, somehow, he was able to find enough strength to deal out forty of them. Dropping down off the bar, landing in a squat position, Ian straightened himself out, smirking, while Chris's mouth was gaped open.

"Dude," he breathed, mostly shocked, but a little embarrassed by how little he had did himself. "How the fuck did you do that?" Chris's eyebrows were raised far beyond his forehead, and Ian simply continued to smirk.

"It's my secret technique," Ian replied, circling his shoulder-blades. "All in the rotation of your shoulders," he said. What he meant by that? Chris had no clue whatsoever.

They rested for a good three minutes, and soon, after drinking their sport drinks, they were back to the intervals; this time Chris used all his might, getting to twenty seven, but was once again topped by Ian who hit thirty five—though the next two intervals were a lot lower: Chris only hitting ten, and Ian hitting fifteen.

To keep it brief: they were absolutely exhausted by the time they finished their hour and a half workout. Sweat was no doubt pouring down their faces at speeds faster than rain landing on a window in the middle of January. Chris stood looking at himself in the mirror inside the locker room—while Ian was setting up the ring for their sparring match. His chest was bulky and well shaped into that of any athlete, his abs were lean—yet he lacked an official six pack—and he was very proud of himself for how good he looked; but, most of all, proud that he was getting stronger, faster, and smarter everyday. And what made it all the more worthwhile was knowing that Ashley supported him in his endeavor to reach a higher standard. She was the reason he got out of bed everyday; she was the reason for his reasons. He loved her more than anything; and to serve her in anyway he could was a goal he would always try to accomplish and surpass with infinite affection.

And it was these similar feelings that Ian smothered his own girlfriend with: Trisha Elizabeth Parson—a woman of extremely high intellect and character. Chris only saw her a few times in his life; but by the way Ian always seemed to swoon over her, or talk about her as if she was a goddess sent from up high, made it clear in Chris's mind that she was Ian's entire world. He wondered if her and Ash would get along—they'd never met before, and Chris had suggested they all catch a movie sometime. Ian typically shied away from this however, saying, on multiple occasions, that Trisha was a very timid and awkward person, which was known to be the curse for all those lingering in the field of intelligence instead of the extroverted nature of prominent socialization.

Overall, however, according to appearances, the last time Chris actually saw her—which was two weeks ago—Trisha acted and looked like anyone of modern society and modest being. Her hair was chestnut brown, lips a gentle pink, burning with resignation of thoughtfulness and fortitude were her solid gray eyes—eyes that belonged to a person respected in the art of critical thinking—and her skin smooth and yellow, her body shapely, like the pedals on a marigold. She spoke with the tongue of caution; every sentence passed on by her pale lips was always said after closely observing a situation, or, in simpler terms, only talked when she had something important to say.

Which wasn't much different from Ashley; however, Ashley's highly intellectual brain, and the words floating around inside it, were never expressed verbally. On the contrary, Ashley's mind was of pen and paper—such was it for anyone who enjoyed writing. She wrote thousands of words a day, some stories she kept, others she threw away only to come back to them later when she realized how much she liked the ideas—there wasn't a story in the world she couldn't tell. In some of her manuscripts she discussed the rise and fall of Rome, wrote countless descriptions about Nazi Germany, skimmed over the enthralling waters of philosophy, and would put her ink to the test against works from greats such as Tolstoy, Dickens, Hugo, and George Elliot. Belonging to her was the mind of an abstract writer—the purest form of writer any human dreamed to be considered as, which Ashley fell under this esteemed category virtually effortlessly.

Inside his gym bag, Chris had brought with him the necessities: red boxing gloves, shinguards, and hand wraps. He carried all of it with him and sat down on the steps leading up to the ring.

Ian was busy with making sure the ropes were appropriately weighted, and that there weren't any holes stretched across the bottom board. Only when his search was finished, and everything came up fine, he slid in between the third and fourth rope, and passed by Chris, who was taping over his hands with black wraps, and brought over a folding chair, placing it a near five feet in front of Chris, and, once he retrieved his own gear, he sat down and got to work sliding on his shinguards, wrapping his hands, and then shoving them into his gloves.

It was decided beforehand that each round would last a solid five minutes—with eight rounds in total. Typically, Ian and Chris would be in the presence of the gym's MMA instructor, John Smith, whose nickname among other fighters was "Grand Slam" because of how powerful a single punch of his was, known to have the capacity to knock out any man with a lightening fast jab to the jaw. But he wasn't here today—probably due to the rain, but also because he only worked on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays; classes started at four in the afternoon and ended at ten at night on those days. Other than the cardio class, it was the most popular class—belonging to at least thirty people, with the highest ever in one day reaching over fifty.

Ian had been the one to suggest adding a MMA class to his brother, James. At first, James was against the idea, saying that hiring a teacher would be too expensive; but Ian managed to convince him when he talked about the possible profit they could make; so, on June 12th 2014, marked their first attempt. During this time, they'd hired a man named Tristan "Sweetlove" Gingus, who was a well respected fighter in the professional world—though they eventually replaced him with John "Grand Slam" Smith who was willing to put in extra time for a little less money. The first class was a beautiful success, clocking in a total of forty three people— with twenty two of them actually going on to subscribe as a member. And with Planet Fitness having the only MMA place in town, James and Ian could get away with charging one hundred and fifty a month.

As time progressed, they eventually added on a large space within the gym dedicated directly for their MMA class. Many instructors came and went—John Smith was hired in April of 2015—but usually left for the simple reason they weren't being paid enough, even though Ian tried his best to work with them in any way he could—he was just glad John stuck around; he wasn't only a great fighter, but was also one of the coolest, nicest guys in the world. Ian had never once seen him talk negative about his students or those he fought—humble and kind, those were his defining traits. And patient. Very patient; he never turned away a kid for being extremely overweight and couldn't do more than ten jumping jacks; instead, he worked with them. Put them on a healthy diet plan, taught them how to train inside the gym and outside the gym, never sold them bullshit supplements—and it worked. Anyone who stuck with John's advice, training hard everyday, eating right, found success not only in learning how to compete, but also in how to lead healthy, beneficial lives. He was a miracle worker.

Chris and Ian stood at opposite sides of the ring: one in the blue corner, the other in the red corner. They kept their shirts on since it was only sparring, but their eyes read aggression, waiting for the buzzer to sound so they could begin. Taking a quick sip from his Gatorade, Ian then tucked his mouthguard into his mouth, sucking the spit from the rubbery plastic. Chris did the same.

 _Beep. Beep._ Went the timer; and they both, in perfect succession, raised up their arms and fists into defensive positions. The rules were simple: no elbows, no take downs, etc. It was good old fashion kickboxing. They tapped each other's glove, signaling respect and a clean fight, and went to work going one hundred percent—this wasn't some school girl sparring session, no soft contact, full-on explosive.

They danced around the ring like two bulls. Chris bit hard on his mouthguard, studying Ian closely, watching his feet, watching his hips, watching his shoulders, waiting on the first punch, though it never came. They kept circling. Note: they weren't the best kickboxers—Chris had only been taken classes for a couple of months, same as Ian; so they weren't as aggressive or as quick as professionals like John, but they enjoyed the sport nonetheless; and they both saw improvement since starting.

Eventually, they reached their peaks, like two volcanoes erupting, Ian threw up a roundhouse to Chris's left thigh, sending a dull ache through his flesh. Circling, circling. Again, Ian attempted another one, but was checked by Chris's protected shin, and was soon having to dodge a jab and a cross, followed by a sloppy roundhouse to the calf. They broke away, and Ian could feel himself slightly limping after the onslaught he'd endured.

Like cattle, they breathed heavily and tiredly. Five minutes sure as hell seemed like an eternity when inside the ring. And they were going to do eight of these? Chris jabbed lightly against Ian's glove that was guarding his face. Then came two sets of jabs and then a cross, making Ian stumble backwards a bit. Chris's strikes were powerful, but not very precise. Ian used this as an advantage, knocking a good right hand into Chris's jaw when he made the mistake of striking without keeping his hands up. That staggered him for a long moment. Ian could easily tell by the way Chris was shaking the daze out of his head that he was wearing down. If he could get in a few more hits like that . . .

 _Beep. Beep._ Five minutes passed, and Ian managed to land another powerful right strike across Chris's cheek, turning the skin blood red and throbbing. Chris yanked off his gloves, sat down, and touched the tender flesh with his fingertips. It beat in sync with his heart, as if all the cells in his body were gathering in that one area in order to combat the bruising, but failed horribly. Ian witnessed Chris's distasteful expression and walked over to him.

"You alright, man?" he asked, noticing the purple blotch forming on Chris's right cheek. "Damn! I'm sorry," he apologized, but Chris refused to stand up, and instead spat out a few ounces of blood from his busted lips—it landed in tiny puddles on the ring—tasting the iron on his tongue. His eyes were dark and out of humor, and his tone was similar.

"It's fine," he replied, coughing up a few more spouts of red. He glared up at the overlooking Ian, not bothering to hide his protruding frown. "Sorry for getting your shit dirty," he went on, glancing down at the pools of bodily fluid beside him. "That hook of yours," his frown attempted to turn into a smile, and it did for a moment, but in the end failed, "it's fucking brutal." Ian helped him back to his feet.

"I think we ought to call it a day," he suggested to Chris's disapproval.

"What? Fuck you, dude. I'm fine. Let's go again." The taste of blood in his mouth might've been bad for morale, but Chris was a champion—in his mind at least—and he wouldn't allow himself to be beaten by a few spurts of blood, so he slid back into his gloves; however, he wasn't so sure if Ian felt the same.

No. He didn't. And it was obvious when he referred to the time he read on the clock. "I promised to go and see my niece's school play today," Ian reasoned, hardly trying to sound convincing. His lying only deepened Chris's frown.

"Don't bullshit me, bro," he ordered, crossing his arms over his chest, without taking off his boxing gloves. The speech he used was hard and direct, and he hoped Ian would respect it enough to give him the truth, which was, undeniably, him feeling guilty for busting Chris's lips.

"No, seriously," he continued, growing more and more flustered and red faced. He already started packing up his stuff, glancing every so often at Chris who remained in the ring, and kept repeating the same couple of sentences: "I gotta be there by eleven." And that reminded Chris of his own plans.

 _Shit. I gotta get going too,_ he thought, removing his gloves and wraps and jumping over the rope, landing on the blue wrestling mat outside the ring. He then took off his shinguards, and jogged across the gym floor to Ian who was drinking the few final sips of his Gatorade. He'd promised Ashley yesterday that he'd go to Walmart and buy her a new laptop, since her old one was broken, so she could do her schoolwork and write—writing being the main reason. Luckily, Chris had received enough extra money working overtime at Planet Fitness to afford her this gift.

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Ian asked, preparing to close the gym for the next few hours—to go and do what? Chris didn't now. Unless, he was actually being honest, and he was going to his niece's school play, but, surely, that was false. Right? Did Ian have more than one sibling? Chris thought it better if he didn't ask, believing Ian would've already told him if he wanted him to know.

Chris nodded. "You betcha," he agreed, opening the door to the locker room, undressing, and hopping into the gym's shower for a brief few minutes. Nobody except him and Ian were there, so he didn't have to worry about someone walking in on him in the nude—after all, Ian _never_ stepped foot into the locker room. Why? Because, according to what he told Chris, he hated the smell; but even more than that, he hated changing in front of people, which was kiddish, but it wasn't anything ridiculous, and Chris could understand Ian's disliking toward a public locker room because of it—he himself often found men who never shaved awfully gross, but he learned to deal with it on a regular bases.

After covering himself in a long sleeved shirt, a black beanie, and jeans, he stepped out of the locker room. Outside, he noted as he looked through the glass on the door, the rain had stopped, and, glancing over to his right, he saw Ian inside his office, his expression strained while he raced down the last five pieces of paper; Chris never figured out what exactly he was writing, and he never cared to ask, simply accepting the assumption that it had something to do with the cardio class, and it was this assumption he reminded himself of continuously ever since the night Ashley had called.

Tapping on the office window, Chris smiled and waved goodbye to Ian, who, in the middle of writing, returned with his own wave and smile. Then, once Chris had everything packed, he exited the building, and was immediately taken aback by the first inhale of blistering cold air. Good thing he was wearing a beanie, or else his ears might've frozen off, leaving nothing but odd looking stumps on the sides of his head. He fought against the wind the entire way to his car, jerking open the door when he got there, and sat down inside it, quickly cutting off the coolness when he slammed the door close. The world around him seemed to be locked in a dark blue hue, which was a common description after a storm, especially during the colder months, and Chris admired it all as he twisted the key in the ignition, backing up, and, still admiringly, drove off several miles down the road.

The trip to Walmart took less than thirty minutes. All the work required was simply going to the technology section, finding a well-priced laptop, and asking one of the employees to retrieve it from the packaged center in the back of the store. Chris in particular knew a lot about computers, and he knew exactly what kind Ashley would need for her work—nothing fancy, nothing too expensive—and it was a regular $300 Hp Laptop. No more. No less.

Ashley's eyes widened when she saw him carrying the box beneath his armpit inside their apartment. Her legs brought her to the door where he stood, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him tenderly. Chris used his foot to shut the door, embracing her tightly with his one free arm, only to let her go after she took the laptop out from under him. "Thank you so much," she said appreciatively, placing the box on the coffee table, then noticing the massive purple bruise that had formed on his cheek. She graced over it with her gentle fingers. "Oh God, Chris, what happened?"

He backed away from her, cupping his cheek so she no longer saw it. "It's fine," he said. "Me and Ian were sparring, and he socked me upside my head." Without allowing her a rebuttal, Chris said, "Here." He then took off his beanie and squatted down, taking out the knife in his pocket, "I'll open it." The sticky tape was hardly a match for the sharp blade, slicing through each piece like melted butter. Ashley was excited, but her excitement only increased tenfold once he brought the laptop out. The sleek black finish was stylish and fresh—the packaging kept it free from scratches and blots of dust—the body was about as slim as a cellphone, which was a wonderful feature, making trudging it around all the more easier, and it meant, also, that Ashley didn't need to buy a new bag to carry it in.

Instructions on how to operate it came in the box wrapped inside a small plastic packet. On the front it read, in blue letters, _Welcome home. Welcome to Hp._ Honestly, Chris didn't need help setting up something as simple as Windows, which Ashley would have no part in doing, since she was about as technologically aware as a monkey—only knowing how to operate basic Iphone functions.

"Are you still going over to Matt and Emily's today?" she asked him on the couch, waiting patiently for the laptop to finish downloading its final touches. She'd brought them two cups of green tea, and Chris drank it down with purpose.

Licking his lips, and laying the cup right beside the computer, he said, "Yeah, I'm still going—though I doubt Emily will be there. Matt made that pretty clear. I dunno about you, but I think she hates us."

Ashley's eyes frowned about as much as her lips. "You mean," she said, resting upon his gaze, "she hates _me."_ Chris nodded disapprovingly, glancing down at her fingers as they flailed around anxiously. He calmed them down by placing her hands into his, squeezing her palms softly with his thumbs.

"Please," he begged, "don't think like that. There isn't anyone on this Earth who blames you for what happened, Ash. You did what any sane person would've done. You was scared—everyone was. Mike was the one who drew the pistol," he stated firmly. "Not you. What were you supposed to do?"

"I could've told him to put it away," she replied quietly, holding back her emotional state of believing herself to be a cowardly traitor. "I could've did something—anything at all. No. I wanted him to kick her out," she shuttered, "to _kill_ her if he had to." The memories flooded her mind in full, like a tsunami swallowing the shore of her brain. Shaking her head violently, wishing for the dreams to halt their tyrannical dictation over her life, she held onto Chris, resting herself on his shoulders. "I could've did something," she repeated over and over again, tears strolling down her cheeks. "Goddamn it," her voice broke. "Why did this have to happen to us? Damn it. You're going off to war—" she trailed off, revealing her true thoughts on matters far reaching. "You're going to get killed . . ."

Chris stroked her hair compassionately. What was he supposed to say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The best thing he could do in that moment was to hold her and show her that he cared, to shield her from the scorn of her own self hatred. He felt her heart coincide with his own, their breaths blended together, his calm clarity slowly soaked into her, and she stopped crying then, breaking from her sorrow and looking into his shining blue eyes.

"I love you," she said, touching his forehead with hers. "Promise me you'll always come back to me."

He kissed her passionately. "I promise."

* * *

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **11:30 am**_

 _ **Ian**_

What he told Chris was, for the most part, ninety percent true. His niece's school _was_ putting on a play, _The Wizard of Oz,_ and she _would_ be playing the role of Dorothy; however, it was taking place at eight o'clock rather than eleven—so, the main reason he left was because, as Chris assumed, of his guilty conscience that said to him: "You hurt your friend. Don't you see him bleeding? He hates you now. You better leave." The thoughts burned like hot iron melting off a part of his brain. And they continued to do so until he got into his car, after closing the gym for the day, and drove over to his brother's house.

Ian loved James dearly; and he spent a large portion of his time hanging out with him. The first year that they opened up Planet Fitness was some of the most pleasant memories he had with his elder brother—who was twenty four, while Ian was twenty two. Hours of planning was an important necessity: they had to work out the details of when their doors would open and when they would close, they had to figure out what a good amount of pay was for their staff, they had to find ways to advertise properly, they had to learn how much rent and other bills would cost, and how to work everything into their limited budget, etc., etc.

 _James was right,_ thought Ian, pulling into his brother's driveway—his red Mustang was parked in the garage— _before success comes a shit ton of hard work._ He knocked on the door, his steely blue eyes were placed behind a pair of spectacles, and his black hair was tucked inside a weathered Crimson Tide football cap—he'd bought it many years ago back when he went with his father to visit one of his cousins, Boyd Fairweather, down in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He remembered the taste of fresh Alabama blackberries, remembered the succulent juice that Juicy Juice itself wished to imitate, but never even coming close to the sweetness, and the perfect amount of tang, that a gardened blackberry produced.

These were only a few of the random thoughts he was shuffling through inside his head as he waited for the door to open.

And when it did, with the first lock unlatching, followed by two more, James stepped out onto the porch without a shirt, and greeted Ian with the affection that any regular elder brother would. He must've been in the middle of watching a movie due to the butter stains accumulating on his blue jeans, and that his fingers looked as if he was finger painting with yellow paint. "Isn't this a surprise!" he said gleefully, his baritone voice booming like usual. "What you doin' here baby bro?" he asked, welcoming him inside. "Get your ass in here, there's someone I want you to meet." Curiously, Ian followed James into the living room and was introduced to some strange woman sitting on the couch.

There were two notable traits about the girl, as she sat there silently, her brown eyes only meeting Ian's for a brief moment before focusing them back on the television, and they were her oddly crooked nose, which, most likely, had been broken multiple times, and her overtly large breasts—a trait that James undoubtedly enjoyed the most, the fucker.

"Ian," he said, with a wide hand motion, "this is Cass." James smirked broadly as he watched his brother, and who was guessed to be his girlfriend, shook hands, and exchanged looks that seemed to hold their own conversation, detailing to each other the brashness and high energy that took guidance over James, the man in which they both knew—one more than the other.

"It's great to meet ya," she said, though Ian had a tough time looking at anything besides the grotesquely shaped nose adjoining her otherwise pleasant features. "Your brother's been talkin' so much 'bout you." Her eyes lightened when she saw the hat he was wearing. "You like Alabama too?" The longer she carried forward the conversation, the more Ian saw in her warm expressions a very mystical and avid temperament. "That's my favorite team." Every word that parted from her pink lips was said with such awe inspired amazement that you'd think she was giving a speech inside a dome holding a million people, discussing the matters of something far more important than a football team. Ian figured that most young women possessed similar deeply rooted habitual appendices in the matter of how they talked and what they talked about—both of which seemed to dictate how their conversations went. Cass appeared inseparable from this rule.

"That's awesome!" Ian attempted to mimic her enthusiasm, but was still unable to nail it right on the head—the majority of men could never reach the level of enthusiasm that a woman could, no matter how hard they tried. Something about the female spirit led women to live lives ordained by the creed written in their souls, in which mandated that they suffered from a special kind of consternation, yet remained ardent among society. He sat down on the chair on the other side of the room, his mind going back and forth from what was inside it and what was outside it. "How long have you been with the Tide?" he asked, once everyone was seated. James turned down the movie so there wouldn't be any interruptions during their friendly chat.

"I've been with 'em ever since I was tiny. I—"

"She was born in Alabama," James interrupted, much to Cass's exaggerated spitefulness. "What part of Alabama was it again?" he continued, indifferent to the glare he was receiving from her. Ian wanted to laugh, but feared that he would be her next target after she strangled James for his abrupt rudeness.

"Like I was sayin'," she said, almost in a snarl—James got the hint and shut up; Ian enjoyed the way she promoted authority over his brother; he liked Cass more because of this—"I've been a fan of 'em since forever." She glanced at James, her smile returning. "And like James said, I was born in Springville, Alabama among my daddy, mamma, and two little brothers. We used to own a farm, raising cattle and stuff like that. My youngest brother even had himself an award-winning show pig; he went all over the country, from Kansas to California, doin' pig shows and the likes." Her throat must've been dry 'cause she reached over the coffee table and grabbed a large glass mug, swishing whatever liquid was inside around for a minute, before drinking.

"Farmers must be common in Alabama," Ian said, watching her lick her lips after putting down her mug. "Did you enjoy growing up in a place like that?"

The question was an expected one, and she simply shrugged her slender shoulders. "You get used to it," she replied, obviously taken back to her younger years as a child. "It was hard work, tossin' hay, cleanin' pig pens—ain't nothin' worse than steppin' in pig shit." The face she made at the mere mention of the act caused her to look on with disgust.

"That does sound pretty bad," Ian said, laughing a bit to himself. "I couldn't imagine what that would smell like. I've never been around any pigs for more than a few days. We've got a cousin who lives in Tuscaloosa—ever been there before?"

"A few times," she answered, her voice thoughtful as she recounted her days there. "Nice 'nough people livin' there I suppose. Ain't got no friends there 'course. I moved up here 'bout a year ago, and been goin' to college to become a teacher. Don't know what them kids'll make of my accent once I get that far."

James squeezed her hand. "Your accent ain't just peachy, it's a blessin'." Ian had to hand it to him, he sounded quite convincing as a redneck, though Cass didn't much like his teasing.

"Shut yer yap," she snorted. "I can't help how I talk; it ain't somethin' you learn to forget. I'm tryin' my best. And you ain't got no room to talk." She was looking severely at James now. "You sound like some sissy city boy who ain't never worked a hard day in his life."

James stumbled over the hundreds of words pouring out of his mouth, never making any sense with them. "You—I—get . . ."

"How did you two lovebirds meet in the first place?" Ian finally had to ask, saving his brother from impending doom—whose cheeks were flushed red, and who gave Ian an appreciative nod for having his back against the sassy Alabama pine.

The story was a rather simple one.

"We met a couple weeks ago at a downtown bar," Cass started, her eyes flashing in remembrance as she relived what happened. "I was drinkin' by my lonesome, askin' the bartender to keep the drinks rollin', and I remember James comin' over, smellin' of whiskey and somethin' else, and he says to me, 'Can I buy you a drink?' Damn idiot was what he was. I'd already put down five shots of Vodka, and here comes this boy thinkin' I care about gettin' a free drink. I told 'im, 'No,' but the damn bastard persisted; so, after we got shit faced together, we stumbled over to a nearby hotel, and, well—the rest is history."

James' facial expression towards the utterance of the retelling of that night made every word Cass said all the more weighty and true. "Huh," thought Ian aloud, thinking the story over. "I guess you guys can say the hands of fate were with you. I don't think I've ever hooked up with a girl after a night in a bar. I'm usually too fucked up to care about getting laid." He raised a brow at his silence stricken brother. "You alright, James?" he asked. "You haven't said much since I've been here." As he said this, Ian noticed the blank expression washing over his sibling's face—it was the same expression he'd fall victim to as a child: a bare, empty, emotionless expression that ghosts found chilly—and Cass was worried.

"James?" she asked, lightly running her fingernails over his arm. "Are you okay?" He turned his head, his thoughts and self were slowly returning back to reality, though the queerness of the situation never left for the remainder of the time Ian spent there.

"Sorry about that," James responded, minutes after being asked if he was okay. "I zone out sometimes . . ." He cut off the last piece of his sentence, referring back to the previous conversation. "Yeah, we've been together ever since," he said, talking about when they met in the bar. "Isn't that right, Cass? You can't handle not being around me for more than five minutes." Smirking, he wanted Ian to know that what he was saying was true, so, Ian, giving James the benefit of the doubt, allowed the assumption that Cass never dared leave his brother's side into his pool of thoughts.

They bickered for the next ten minutes: one poking the other, the other telling embarrassing stories; it was a very childish love—a kind of love that was abundant in James' personal life. It was an innocent, dreamy love that would, more than likely, not last; because, from what Ian gathered throughout his career of dating all sorts of women, the one thing he learned was that childish love was always doomed to fail. This was due to the fact that a child only loves the exterior: the looks, the texture, the smell, these were all parts of something not so deep within the soul. It was about having fun, passionate love making, and innocence—innocence unbeknownst to the world outside its skin deep walls that were easily picked apart and destroyed, revealing there was never much hope to begin with.

On his way home, he received a text message from Trisha. He pulled over to the side of the road, out of safety for himself and others, and scanned over what she'd written him.

 _Trisha: Hey, baby, I'm just texting to see what time you want me to come over tonight for your niece's play. I texted Marcus and he said it was starting at eight._

 _Ian: Yeah, that's right. Um . . . are you at work right now?_

 _Trisha: Yes. I'm on my hour break. So, what's it going to be?_

 _Ian: Whatever you want to do. I'm thinking you can come by as soon as you get off so we can get ready to go. Make sure to wear something decent._

 _Trisha: Well, duh. Do you really think I'd show up wearing something hideous?_

 _Ian: You would if it meant embarrassing the shit out of me._

 _Trisha: True, true. Okay, I guess I'll see you in a couple of hours then._

 _Ian: Sounds good. Love you._

 _Trisha: Love you too._

He returned his phone inside his pocket, looked over his left shoulder to assure himself that it was safe to go, and rolled back onto the highway, staying hooked to the right lane rather than the left since he'd be making a turn in the next two miles, and down a long dirt road filled with mud holes and unfurnished rocks—2106 Polly Street was the name, and that's where he lived: at the very end of the road that broke out into a wide open space, with the sun dipping through the trees, kissing the land with warm rays of shine, and a gorgeous pond filled to the brim with life located a mile past the backyard—you could easily see it through the tree branches and leaves, and, on better occasions, you could even hear ducklings quacking.

Ian spent his weekends sitting by the pond, listening to the dragonflies buzz around him, tasting the wind as it carried with it particles of the crystal clear water. It wasn't something he did too often, but sometimes he'd get into his boat and paddle to the other end. Because, just past the tree line, was a massive drop off that led into a forest; you could see for miles, as if there stood the end of the world just past the blue horizon. When he first met Trish, it was one of the first places he took her to. Never dreamed, that after two years later, they'd still be together. It was surprising as much as it was wonderful; this was his first serious relationship, almost as if all the previous ones never existed. He only thought about Trisha, and how she was the only one he wished to spend the rest of his life with, believing that they would make each other very happy.

"A cabin on the side of paradise," that was the best description Ian could use to describe his little house in the middle of nowhere. James had been the one to say it, and it remained true. The so called "cabin" Ian lived in was made from oak wood; the porch was decorated with silver wind chimes that jingled harmonious melodies every day during November; the porch swing there was held up by a set of chains and would creak whenever someone sat down on it—this made everything all the more authentic, pleasing Ian's taste in quite a traditional sense.

He'd even built a small carport to protect his Camaro from the intense rains that came with the settlements of both autumn and winter. Parked right beside this port, red flakes of paint chipping off the hood and doors, was his grandfather's old 1970 Chevrolet C10 pickup truck, which was given to Ian as a gift after his grandfather's passing. He never drove it due to feeling uncomfortable, as if some being lived inside the motor, watching him every time he changed the stick—a presence Ian could only guess was his granddaddy's spirit. James told him he was being superstitious, but, even if that was true, Ian still never felt comfortable driving it.

As soon as he entered the house, after dumping his gym bag on the couch in the living room, he went into the kitchen and fixed himself a small post workout meal: a can of tuna, an apple, a couple of peanut butter crackers, and a tall glass of ice cold water. He porked it down as if he hadn't eaten in years, visiting James must had tired him out more than what he thought, because he crashed on the couch, flipping on the television, and laid there in contemplative silence as whatever movie was playing mumbled in the background. Then it struck him. He needed to call Marcus to make sure that the play was at eight, and that he needed to be there by seven so he could find a good seat.

Marcus was Ian's eldest brother—someone he never really talked about to his friends, mainly for the reasons that Marcus wished to be left anonymous in his two brothers' relationships. Ian and James never understood their brother's bizarre attitude toward other people, but, out of respect, they never spoke about him to anyone. Most assumptions led to the conclusion that Marcus was extremely awkward around people, though no evidence was shown to prove this theory; other assumptions included that Marcus was secretly part of an underground drug cartel, and that he needed to remain unknown so the police wouldn't know where to look for him—this theory, of course, was provided by none other than James himself, and it was one Ian quickly dismissed as blind speculation.

He sat up on the couch, turned down the television, and proceeded to call Marcus several times until he finally picked up his phone.

"What's up, Ian?" came his voice on the line.

"I'm calling to make sure Madison's play starts at eight. Can you run that by me again?"

"Sure, sure. You need to be there by at least seven to get good seats—are you bringing Trish with you?"

"Yeah, she said she's coming over as soon as she gets off work. How's Maddie doing? I bet she's excited."

Marcus chuckled. "You know she is; she's been talking about it all week. Do you know how many times we've had to watch reruns of _The Wizard of Oz?"_

. . . .

The conversation went on for ten minutes before they finally ended their call; and Ian spent the next few moments quietly observing the space around him, seeing if anything needed to be cleaned, so his place wouldn't look like a total pigsty when Trish arrived. Luckily for him, he never picked up on his father's messy habits, unlike James, who, unbeknownst to himself, was an utter slob. Ian couldn't understand the fascination Cass had with his brother—the guy was literally a scoundrel, especially during one of his rotten moods, which, noticed through the years of Ian's life, was a very prominent attachment to James' character.

When Trisha finally arrived in her silver 2014 Ford F-150, Ian was outside cleaning his car. The truck pulled up beside him; the beast's engine roared like a lion, only to be silenced when the keys were removed from the ignition. He smiled and waved, and she exited the vehicle, as he grabbed an old plastic cup, poured its insides on the ground, and met her as she dropped down from the high step. The truck was a gift that Ian had bought her from a used car lot; the thing only costed five thousand dollars, seven thousand if you included the massive mud bogging wheels Trish herself had bought; the frame rested easy on those wheels, propped up so high that the roof was nearly four feet above their heads. Therefore, making the perched step hooked to it a must.

He assumed she must've went home to change before coming; she wasn't wearing any sort of get up one would expect an attractive woman to wear, for Trisha cared very little about her appearance, the only judgment that mattered to her was God's and Ian's, which God was an automatic default, where as Ian often times complained about her simpleness. Her dark hair was pulled back messily in a pony-tail, her gray eyes treated her face to the pleasantries of their wide fullness, and were darkened by a rich shade of mascara; other features linked to her person were faithful to the plainness of her white shirt, bracelets, jeans, and sneakers.

Ian, however, wasn't too big on the whole regular girl persona like she was. "I was kinda hoping you'd wear a dress for the occasion," he mumbled, loud enough for her to hear, but quiet enough so he didn't sound agitated. He coyly scratched the sweat from off the back of his neck, expecting an explanation smothered in attitude—typical Trish right there.

"Seriously?" she scoffed, blinking her vibrant eyelashes at him. "It's not like we're going to a funeral or anything like that are we?" Ian stared at her blankly, and she scoffed again, shoving past him, and heading for the screen door, all the while saying: "You really need to stop being so picky. I can't stand when you . . ." and some other things that Ian paid no attention to as he checked the backseat for the third time that day, nothing else appeared to be needing a clean.

He followed her inside, and the first thing he did was go up the stairs to his bedroom, went into his closet, brought out a nice pair of pants, boxers, and a button-up shirt, and went straight to the shower. Afterwards, he wiped the fog off the mirror, staring at the tiny amounts of stubble gathered beneath his nose and bottom lip, and dabbed over the little buggers with shaving cream, then lightly went over the skin with his razor.

Trisha, in the meantime, was sprucing up some grub for them to eat before they left. Ian came down the steps, shirtless, and drying his hair with a blue towel, and was greeted by the wonderful smell of spicy lemon seasoning, slathered, he assumed, over fat pieces of salmon; accompanying this dish was green beans, okra, broccoli, and sweet potato fries. Merrily, Ian wrapped his arms around his girlfriend's waist as she was in the midst of cooking, suckling on her neck.

"Ian," she moaned, trying to stifle her excitement, the sweet feeling of his skin on hers. "Stop it. I'm busy right now." Inside, she was deeply enjoying the contact; but like many women who carried themselves seriously and firmly, she broke free from his grasp, and used her shoulder to lightly shove him backwards. "Quit it," her tone was anything but angry. She gazed into his lively eyes for only a minute, then turned her back on them, and Ian knew better than to provoke the monster dwelling someplace inside her, waiting to be released.

"You're no fun," he complained, though hiding his laughter. He knew she was glaring at him by the way the back of her head was looking up at the ceiling, her eyes, on the other side, were staring down at the floor, possibly rolling around in their sockets. "Alright, fine. I'm going. I'm going," he said, flinging his hands up exaggeratedly, leaving to go back upstairs to put his shirt on. _Can't even enjoy myself in my own house,_ he thought half bitterly and half jokingly. _An old granny is more frisky than she is. Fuck. I love her so damn much._

* * *

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **4:12 pm**_

 _ **Josh**_

The dirt path they walked on, while they laughed and told jokes, was surrounded by miles of lush brown, yellow, and red forestry, enough to wrap them up in a cool November shade, one that was only interrupted when the sun managed to break through the leaves. Glorious melodies of nature—birds chirping, squirrels scuttling up fat tree trunks, the flowing creek beside them rushing into a tiny waterfall—satisfied their want for music, which Sam refused to play on their walk, telling Josh that it would "ruin the experience." And at first he thought her idea was complete bogus, but now, as he allowed himself to be carried by the noises around him, he thought to himself how nice it really was.

"I want to thank you," he said, kicking around the rocks at his feet, then looking up toward the pale blue sky, where he witnessed little splotches of black seamlessly flapping their wings through the thin wisps of drawn clouds, as if the wind was letting them ride along its current.

Sam too gazed up and saw what he was seeing. "For what?" she asked once satisfied, and brought her attention back down, grounding herself in the mystical expression cheering on Josh's bright face—she hadn't seen him so at peace since before Hannah and Beth died. She kinda figured his response was going to be along the cliché lines of "for everything" and wasn't disappointed when he lived up to her expectation, stating:

"For everything,"—her guess was spot on, but Josh spoke in such a way that gave her a whole new meaning for those two words—"helping me through those dark times when Hannah and Beth disappeared, for being there for me and my mom, helping us get through our grief . . ." There was no sarcasm to be found in his solemn tone. Sam rested her hand on his shoulder.

"That's what friends are for," she said. "We've gotta stick together, no matter what happens. It's important that we learn to forgive . . ." she swallowed hard on that word—a word, according to the broken spirit in her hazel eyes, she wasn't yet ready to say, let alone actually believe. So, out of fear and urgency, she quickly changed her sentence to: "I mean—it's important that we learn to keep everything from the past in the past,"—much better—"and that it's best for all of us if we forget and never talk about it again." Somewhere, in the recess of her mind, laid dormant a villain—one that, unbeknownst to Sam herself, was slowly eating away at the core of her being—so manipulative that she believed it to be her friend. It only had one name: denial.

"That simple, huh?" Josh asked inquiringly, doubting her sincerity. Contrary to Sam, his villain wasn't so deeply entwined within his soul—the nasty devil was laid bare and open for anyone to see—whereas Sam's inner turmoil was hidden far below the skin, thus creating an internal coating webbed together by constant caution and fear. "You really don't believe that?" he asked. They stopped walking for a time to sit down on a fallen log at the side of the dirt road. "Do you?"

Sam shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know what I think," she said, staring fruitlessly at the ground, without glancing at him once, though Josh could still see her eyes as they scanned over one fallen leaf after another. There she was in his presence, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, yet everything about her seemed otherworldly. Her silent charm was intoxicating; the thoughtfulness of her brows, the white glimmer in her eyes . . . all these things kept Josh from knowing what to say, and she easily spotted his staring. "What?" she asked curiously, touching her cheek with her right hand. "Do I have something on my face?"

"No, no," Josh replied, snapping back into reality, inwardly cursing at himself for being creepy. "It's nothing like that," he said, still not having a clue where his sentences were leading him. _Anywhere but this conversation,_ he thought. There went those eyebrows again, slightly dipped, arching over on one side, as they tried making sense of what he was saying. He quickly changed subjects. "I'm glad we're together—as friends I mean. You really have no clue what you mean to me." He said that way more passionately than what he was supposed to, and he hadn't realized it until it was too late.

"Well, gee, Josh that's um—" Sam stuttered, her turn to be wordless and awkward—Josh mentally slapped himself—"that's really nice of you to say." The laughter she forced out was weak and contained. "I'm glad that we're friends too," she finally said, and stood up. "C'mon, we need to get going. We still have three more miles to walk."

Josh groaned loudly. "Three more miles? Are you for real? What are you trying to do to me, Sammy?" Reluctantly, and noisily, he stepped back onto the dirt road, a couple of paces behind Sam, and was briskly trying to catch up to her. She glanced back for only a minute to see his sweating face as they climbed up a hill.

"I'm trying to get your lazy ass to exercise!" she shouted, her echo broke through the trees. "You can do it!" Her teasing was annoying him greatly, but, in a way, it only made him want to beat her up this mountain—hill. Whatever. Try as hard as he might, Sam was already too far gone, and so, by the time he reached the top, his shirt drenched in sweat, she was waiting for him with her hands crossed. He inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath, and managed the words with an exhale: "Fuck . . . you . . . Samantha . . . I—" He straightened out his back—pop went some joints—and when the pain ceased, he glared at the taunting smirk protruding off her dry face.

She patted his wet back. "You did good, champ," she said, sounding about as encouraging as an older brother teasing his younger sibling. She'd been carrying a blue water bottle the entire time, and Josh snatched it out of her hands after she asked, "Thirsty?" in the most diabolical way possible. He continued to glare at her as he drank the holy liquid down, and gave it back to her with little less than half remaining. Seeing how much was left, and after shaking the bottle for good measure, Sam opened the lid and looked inside with one eye, saying, "You know we still have two and a half miles to go, right?" She then sealed the bottle back up, turned on her heels, knowing Josh wasn't ready to go yet, and continued forward with a couple of large paces, eventually breaking into a jog.

"Wait for me!" he cried tiredly, limping after her and breathing like a hog, while his aching feet collided with the rocky dirt like an elephant running away from a dastardly little mouse. Everything in him sung with the wanting to stop; his mind saying, as he watched her petite form escape from his sight: _It's too late, soldier. Abort the mission. I repeat, abort the mission. Mission failure._ A fucking siren could've been going off two inches from his ear, and he still wouldn't have known the difference outside his mind. "Sammy!" He was desperate now. "Sammy!" Sweat poured into his eyes, and he finally had to stop, the salty water stung like no tomorrow. "Fuck!" Then he used his smelly shirt, that stuck to his skin like a wet suit, to wipe away the hundreds of droplets from doing any more damage to his eyesight. In the distance, Sam's blurry image returned, and he shouted, "You owe me a new shirt, Samantha! Not cool, man! Not cool!"

His shouting yielded no effect, other than his own disemboweled embarrassment. "Fuckin, Sam," he mumbled angrily, and started walking again. "We just _had_ to come here in this fuckin' weather, in this fuckin' woods that fuckin' stinks, and I'm so fuckin' tired, and Sam doesn't fuckin' care. When I get up there, she's gonna fuckin' pay." He frowned deeper and deeper the farther he walked. "Ruined my fuckin' shirt, and my fuckin' day." Gritting his teeth, he pestered on, one stomp after another; and though he didn't act like it, he was actually enjoying himself; and was soon taken over by some strange, unearthed part of himself that commentated over his and Sam's relationship, saying that their friendship was on the rise once again.

* * *

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **6:00 pm**_

 _ **Chris**_

He arrived at Matt's doorstep on 3402 Hopkin Avenue as the sky darkened, and the sun vanished behind the tree lines belonging to the suburb which he found himself in. Houses, some white, others gray, and a few made from bricks, rode the distance gallantly, seemingly reaching the horizon beyond the rows of moist hills and wintergreen landscape. The suburb sponsored those with enough money to its trimly cut hedges and perfectly squared yards—a taste of heaven that, Chris assumed, accommodated all of Emily's materialistic desires.

The door opened after his fifth knock; and as per usual, Chris expected a smiling, lighthearted Matthew Taylor—who, in the past, was one of the few beacons keeping everyone's path lit during the painful weeks following Hannah and Beth's disappearances—to greet him at the door; but, as we know now that things change, and that people change, Chris wasn't welcomed by two smiling brown eyes; instead, he was met by a shell, a coating you could say, of what remained of Matthew Taylor.

Like cobwebs, his eyes appeared weak and fragile, old and worn, barely hanging on by a couple of threads—commonly referred to as the eyes of a broken man. His once short black hair had grown below his jaw, resting filthily on the thick of his neck, with his bangs swiped to the side so he could see what and who was in front of him. If Chris would've seen him on the street, he wouldn't have been able to separate Matt from the homeless sleeping in alleyways.

There weren't many words that Chris dared use in this situation, and he himself knew it, so, like the gentleman he tried so desperately to be in situations like these, he raised his right hand, smiled firmly, and said, "It's great to see you, Matt." His voice carried on sternly and assertively. "How've you and Em' been getting along? Gotta say, man, it's been too fucking long."

Matt cautiously looked down at Chris's shake offering, froze for a moment, and slowly met his hand with his own. "We've been doing okay," he said, his grip strong yet weak at the same time. They let go of each other, and Matthew gestured his friend inside. "What about you and Ashley? I hope you guys have been staying out of trouble." Sitting down on his black leather couch, Matthew watched Chris closely as he took his seat beside him.

Chris smirked. "I guess you can say that. We've both been pretty busy as of late. Ash is going back to college for her next semester this upcoming spring. I'm working at Planet Fitness on the weekends. And right now, we're getting by in a nice little apartment. Rent's fair, and it's on a good side of town; but we're hoping to get a house before I leave for Parris Island in March."

"Parris Island?" Matt asked. "Where's that?" Obvious by the expression on his face, he knew very little in regards to anything related to the military; and so did Chris before he signed up—originally thinking that Parris Island was somewhere in France (the hysterical laughs he got from his recruiter made him realize how blatantly wrong he was.)

Admitting this secret to Matt was a million times easier than when he admitted it to Josh, Sam, Ashley, and Ian. He liked Matt—if memory served him well, the guy was a caring, lovable person—though he wouldn't say that they were best friends; but they had become closer after the incident on Blackwood Mountain; unlike Emily and her bitter ways, who refused to take part in reunions of any sort. "It's in South Carolina," he explained—Matt nodded—"it's for, uh, Marine Corps basic training—boot camp. I'll be shipping out mid-March."

"Oh, wow, man." Matt managed a small smile. "That's awesome. I have a cousin in the Marines—at least I think so. Sorry, I don't know a lot about the military." He laughed it off like it was one big joke, but inside his heart fluttered with warm embarrassment for sounding so stupid in the beginning. "I bet that wasn't easy on Ashley." He couldn't even imagine. "Is she doing alright?"

"About as much as you'd expect," Chris answered honestly. "We've been trying our best to open up to each other, especially after what happened . . ." mentioning such things brought a chill over his spine. "It's been difficult for us—for _all_ of us. And about Emily . . ." Chris then entrenched his eyes into Matt's. "I know what happened to her was fucked up. Mike should've never pulled that gun on her . . . and Ash feels horrible about it. I can't go a fucking day without hearing her mention it. Please, Matt, tell Em' that Ashley is extremely sorry for everything—then maybe we can all rest a little easier."

Matt nodded, though his nod wasn't one of certainty, it seemed to be coming from the pity he felt for Ashley, and how Emily hated her. "I'll try and do what I can, bro," he said sincerely, and Chris didn't doubt his sincerity—somewhere past that shell was still the Matthew Taylor he knew; it was almost like looking into a reflection. Had they really fallen that far? And did he really look as ridiculous as Matt did with long hair?

"That's all I'm asking for." Chris clapped his friend's shoulder. "Everything will be alright, man, trust me on this," he added, smiling a smile meant to lighten up the room and whatever it was they were talking about. And it seemed to work for the remainder of the time he spent there. "About your hair . . ." was one of the comments Chris made. "Have you thought about cutting it? Maybe, even washing it?"

Matt scuffled through his curly locks. "I _do_ wash it," he argued. "Do you know how hard it is to keep hair like this from greasing up? And I haven't cut it because, well—Emily likes it."

The absurdity of that comment, and how Matt said it—so innocently and childishly—made Chris bust out laughing. "Damn it, man!" he howled. "Learn to put your fuckin' foot down. Emily's not your goddamn master, and you aren't her slave. Bro—" Pausing for a moment, he caught his breath. "If you want to cut your hair, cut your freakin' hair. What's Emily going to do to you? Take away your bottle?"

"Easy for you to say." Matt darkened. "You don't have to live with her. Nag, nag, nag, nag—that's all she does. How am I supposed to fight that?"

"By stop being a pussy!" Chris almost scolded. "Hello?" He knocked playfully on the side of Matt's head. "Is there a badass jock in there? Seriously, dude," he brought down his hand. "You've gotta get a haircut."

"So I can look like a Shaolin Monk like you?" Matt fired, smirking sarcastically.

Chris pretended to laugh and stood up. "That's funny. It's not like I've ever heard _that_ one before." His mind immediately went back to that cold night outside the jailhouse, waiting anxiously in the dark with Sam and Melinda for Josh to come strolling out the building, and how he mocked his shaved head afterwards. He grabbed Matt by his sweater's sleeve and hauled him up, going to the door.

"Where are we going?" Matt asked, and Chris stepped outside, rolling up his sleeve to look down at his wristwatch. It read nearly seven o'clock.

"I'm taking you to get that mop off your head," he said. "Get your shoes and meet me outside next to my car. I'll have my lights on so you can see." The darkness had come and swallowed the world around them; it was like a misty bog of wet atmosphere and blistering temperatures. Something neither of them particularly enjoyed getting out in; but Chris couldn't take another second of Matt's ridiculous hairstyle, and, honestly, he just wanted to piss Emily off.

They drove over to the barbershop down the block, the open sign was still on, and you could see through the building's revealing window. Chris counted at least four customers sitting in chairs, waiting for their turns, along with three others who were occupying the three barber chairs. The barber on the far left was a pretty young woman with golden hair; the middle barber was an older man, roughly around forty, with scraggly lines of gray over his lips; and the barber on the right, as soon as you came in, was the owner. He wore nice clothes and was very social, laughing and joking with the man whose hair he was working on.

Chris and Matt sat down all the way in the back in order to avoid small talk with the elderly people sitting rows in front of them—as elderly people always had something to say to the younger generations. Not because he hated old people, but because Chris had brought Matt for the sole purpose of getting a haircut, not to make friends with men and women in their late sixties.

After waiting thirty minutes, and once the other customers had left, one of the barbers, the woman, told them that she was ready to see Matt and prepared the chair for him. "Hello there," she began, smiling, and he sat down. "So, are you wanting a trim?" she asked. "A buzz? Mohawk . . ."

"Just cut it short enough so I can actually see his face," Chris interjected from the back, as he played on his cellphone. Matt almost said something to him, but shut his mouth, as the woman spun him around in the chair, facing him in front of the large mirror on the wall. All sorts of utensils were sprawled out on the table below it: scissors, razors, brushes, hair-blowers, etc.

"Is that alright with you, hun?" she asked Matt, reaching for her black comb, a spray-bottle filled with water, and a silver pair of scissors. She ruffled her left hand through the black mess of tangles before her, learning the characteristics of his hair, which was defined primarily by two traits: lots of curls, and naturally greasy.

"Sure," Matt said, and was off-put when her bony fingers vigorously shifted through the top of his head, tearing out dozens of painful knots with her painted nails. "Ow . . ." he seethed when it felt as if she ripped a piece of skin off—but immediately followed it with, "A clean cut would be great," once he regained his voice.

In modern society, a good haircut carries important luggage for men and women alike. According to hair experts (I use the word "experts" in the lightest of terms) there are three basic principles:

1\. From the foreboding black Mohawk of the goth, to the bright highlights of the college cheerleader, the reflection of our personalities—as told from these experts—resides in that which decorates our scalp; and that a properly received haircut enhances not only our appearances, but our characters as well.

2\. That a well groomed hairstyle confines in us the necessity of confidence. We're a species constantly looking for self approval: some say we find it through knowledge, others say we find it through experience, some say we will never find it . . . then there are some (these so called "hair experts") who believe that self confidence can only be attained by the admiration of other human beings—thus provoking the assumption that hair is one of the key factors in whether or not we loath ourselves.

3\. Having the ability to control how our hair looks—what color it is, whether it's short or long, curly or straight—gives us a small taste of the freedom and liberty to which all humans should have the right to. A freedom of self expression and preservation—the act of cutting your hair is the act of doing what you want, a reminder that all people are free individuals.

Matt believed in none of them. Emily, on the other hand, was a disciple to all three, even if she didn't know it yet. As plainly as anyone could see, she was a self serving person with very few friends and many enemies. And it felt to Matt that it was his duty to remain loyal to her in the only way he knew how, and that was by learning to love her despite her disagreeable nature.

* * *

 _ **November 16th 2016 Tuesday**_

 _ **10:05 pm**_

 _ **Matt**_

Chris dropped him off at his house with a fresh set of eyes that were no longer hidden behind veils of black curls; and with them he scanned over the front lawn, gazed into the garage, and saw Emily's car. She was home, and all the lights were on. He needed a deep breath, so he stayed outside for a brief minute, having forgotten the promise he made to her that said if he went anywhere with Chris, he'd be back home by nine thirty. Looking down at his wristwatch, it was five minutes past ten, and he frowned. _Shit,_ he thought, walking up the porch and halting at the steps, his fingers lightly traced over the door knob, aching to open it, but he withheld himself a moment more. _She's going to be pissed._

The door opened suddenly, and Matt stepped back upon seeing Emily, who stood in the door frame with her hands crossed over her chest. "You're late," she said coldly; but he could tell by the bags beneath her eyes that she was too tired to be mad, and so she allowed him inside, closing the door, pausing there in her own thoughtfulness. "What happened to your hair?" she asked, turning around quickly. "Did you cut it?"

Matt was in the kitchen silently pouring himself a cup of water from the faucet, and he too appeared to be lost in his thoughts. Neither of them knew what the other was thinking. "Chris took me to—"

"Of course he did," she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Whatever, Matt, do what you want. I really don't care." There wasn't any emotion in that statement. She sat on the couch, her left arm resting over the cushion, her head slant and looking at Matt who was still in the kitchen. "How'd it go with Chris?" she asked, not because she cared, but because they hadn't anything else to talk about.

Taking a sip, he laid his hands on the newspaper on the counter in front of him, read some of the headlines, then looked up, spotted Emily staring at him, her expression shapeless, and said plainly, "It went good. Better than what I thought it would honestly." He carried his cup and sat beside her.

"How's the bitch doing?" she asked, obviously it was about Ashley.

"That's uncalled for Em'," he said, trying not to scold her. "You very well know that what happened wasn't Ashley's fault. I don't know why you always bring it up. Can't you just let it go for once?"

"Let it go?" She laughed bitterly and sarcastically. "Are you serious? You know what—fine, fine," she got up, "I'm going to bed. You can stay down here and do whatever it is you do. Maybe, give Ashley a call since you like her so much."

"Em', come on," pleaded Matt. "That's _not_ what I meant." It wasn't enough to appease her however, and so he had to watch her as she stormed up the steps and slammed the bedroom door shut.

Defeated and exhausted, he stretched out on the couch, yawned, and then closed his eyes. It wasn't the most comfortable place to be, but he'd rather not face the storm that was Emily's unadulterated temper: something he'd seen one too many times.

* * *

 _ **November 17th 2016 Wednesday**_

 _ **8:00 am**_

 _ **Matt**_

The next day and Matt was outside running on the sidewalk, going from house to house, waving at those tending to their gardens and hedges. It was a sunny November morning, and he wore a blue jacket and sweatpants to help fight against the cold wind blowing in his face. He hadn't ran in forever; it was a wondrous feeling to have his heart rapidly beating, reminding him that he was alive, and to have his leg muscles aching like they used to at the gym. Chris coming over was a godsend. Matt kicked himself for not cutting his hair sooner; and he kicked himself even harder for allowing Emily to dictate his decision over it.

Speaking of Emily, she was already gone by the time he'd woken up. He choked it up as her simply not wanting to see his face before work—might ruin her breakfast. It was a bitter feeling, but it was one he'd grown numb to. Their relationship was never the strongest in the world, not even before the incident. A part of him believed that Emily still often thought about Mike, even though she often expressed her absolute disgust for him, saying something like: "I hope one day that fucker gets mugged and has a gun pointed right in his face—see how he likes it."

And for someone who didn't know her, that might sound like damnable evidence that she despised him. But Matt _did_ know her, and even though Emily could be as cold as ice, he knew that deep down in her heart that she still remained warm for Mike despite it all. And it was a bitter feeling. One he'd grown comfortably numb to.

After his run around several blocks, he stopped at the nearest gas station and came back out with a bottle of cherry Gatorade. Across from him on the other side of the rode, there was a man dressed in a torn jacket and worn out—almost decomposing—blue jeans. And once you got a good look at his missing yellow teeth, the black circles around his eyes, and his disgusting gray and white beard, it was obvious that the poor man was homeless, accompanied only by the single cigarette between his brown lips.

Feeling a tide of shame and empathy for the guy, Matt took out his wallet, and brought out a twenty dollar bill. He then looked both ways before briskly crossing the street, but the man must've seen Matt approaching because he was already saying thank you before the money was even given to him.

"Thank you so much," he croaked, his voice raspy and rugged as a pine cone; and Matt got a good view of his shallow green eyes, like little pebbles stuck to a face of jagged features and filthy must.

"You're welcome, sir," Matt said. "I hope you have a good day."

"God bless you, son," said the man, smiling weakly as he held the paper in his hand. He then turned around and headed the opposite direction. Matt glanced back one more time and felt a pang rise in his stomach as he saw the elder limp his way to the closest McDonald's.

 _Poor guy,_ he thought. _I wish I could do more for him._ Thoughts of the gentleman weighed heavily on his mind as he returned home. The house was empty as usual, and he couldn't help but sigh at his loneliness as he ate breakfast at the table.

He'd have to get ready for work within the next two hours or so, and he contemplated darkly about how much he hated his job. His family owned a small dog walking center in town; many people laughed when Matt told them about it. The jokes usually tailored to dogs pooping on his shoes, which, for the most part, was pretty accurate; and it was only one of the many reasons why he regretted ever letting his sister talk him into it. "You'll have fun," she said. "You'll get to play with lots of really cute dogs," she said. "It's the easiest job in the world," she said. All these things and not one of them was true. He knew he'd have to get her back for it, but he didn't quite know how; she was one sneaky little girl.

As he sat there munching on his Raisin Bran, a red Volkswagen parked itself in front of the garage next to his convertible. From the cereal to the window, Matt pulled back the blinds and peered outside, wondering who it was and why they were here. Emily never informed him that they'd be receiving company today; then again, he thought, she might've not known either. The car door opened, and Matt squinted his eyes, attempting to make out some features. "Who could that be?" he asked himself as he watched the figure of a man exit the vehicle.

It was hard at first to distinguish the major characteristics from the minor, but Matt handled it as best as he could. The stranger's clothes were the easiest to spot and pinpoint: a white shirt on tan pants, work boots, and a modest dark blue jacket—about as basic one could get when choosing attire. Eventually, as the stranger approached the door, Matt began to make out his face: dark brown hair, dark eyes, strong jaw line . . .

It was Mike.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 4 Part 2

**A/N: Enjoy Part 2.**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 4 Part 2**

 _ **November 17th 2016 Wednesday**_

 _ **8:00 am**_

 _ **Sam**_

Sam had enjoyed spending time with Josh, and she hoped they could do it again sometime. But, for now, any future plans would have to be postponed due to the nature of her volunteer work as a humanitarian. Kids across the globe needed her and the many others working alongside her—it was in the department of absolute must. Every Wednesday they would gather inside a small building no larger than an apartment (according to the sign outside, the building represented the _Save the Children Foundation_.) and discuss important matters involving homeless children, abused children, starving children . . . and so on.

Today, they met early in the morning, and, by the time Sam arrived, almost all the seats were taken, which was both wonderful and annoying at the same time. Annoying because of how loud it was and how hard it was to find an open seat; and wonderful because it showed how many people actually valued the act of helping others, whether it be locally or on the other side of the world—and Sam was proud to be a part of it.

The work they did was good work, and Sam truly believed in their cause—nothing was more satisfying than seeing a homeless child sheltered, an abused child loved, and a starving child fed. And it was both compassion and pride that brought her to every meeting where they discussed upcoming future plans and events, such as going abroad to other countries—something Sam often dreamed about doing. Haiti, Kenya, India, Mexico . . . these were only a few examples. The entirety of what she knew about the world still remained to be discovered, and she believed deep down in her heart that traveling to distant lands would provide her with the exact tools she'd need to make discovering possible—it was like an obscure vision clouding around inside her head: tempting, curious, frightening . . . the unknown.

On her arrival, after taking her seat beside an older woman, Sam quietly observed as the people around her talked freely for some fifteen minutes. She knew most of their names. The young man and woman enjoying their joke filled conversation in the back corner were Chad and Diana: two best friends who seemed to be made for one another, evident by the patterns of excitement held within each individual gesture and expression, but never saw it for themselves—as was a very common ailment between a boy and girl who have been friends for many years, never realizing what could be if they only broke beyond the bounds of friendship.

"How are you, Samantha?" asked the older lady sitting beside her. The woman's name was Cynthia Dorsey, and she'd been someone Sam had come to know and respect ever since their first acquaintanceship a couple of months ago. She was a gray haired woman with only a few splotches of black left from her earlier years, she handled herself professionally by sitting up straight, talking direct, and keeping the height of her eyes at a level that garnered respect, but never fed into her ego.

Sam truly believed that a wonderfully vibrant woman still lived in Cynthia; her dark blue eyes were like ageless glass, untouched by the buildup of wrinkles on her face, and her voice was steady when carrying out her sentences with a special type of womanly charm. Only a fool would think her as anything less than fantastic. "I'm doing quite well," Sam replied. "Thank you for asking." The smile on her face was genuine, and she continued the conversation without it ever completely leaving. "I've been doing a lot of charity work lately," she said, and Cynthia nodded pleasantly. "I've also been helping clean up litter at a few of the local parks." What she thought in her mind wasn't as exciting as when she spoke it, so she swiftly changed topics. "I just turned in my paperwork and money for the upcoming Africa trip." Her tone was vastly different from what it was before. Where as her reply to Cynthia's question was answered with merriness, the statement she made about Africa was said with a curious type of excitement, almost as if she was actually saying: "Help me. I don't know if I should go or not. I know it's a good cause, but I don't want to leave my friends and family."

It must be assumed that Cynthia understood both what was expressed directly and indirectly because she replied by saying: "That's wonderful! I'm sure your parents will be very proud of you. You'll meet so many new people that you'll hate when it's over. Trust me. When I was younger, I used to go on trips to Asia, Africa, South America, Europe . . . pretty much all over the world. And not one time did I ever regret it."

"I guess you've seen a lot then. I kinda envy you to be honest," Sam said. What followed next was a series of random anxious thoughts. _I hate planes so freakin' much. What if something happens while we're flying over there? What if I catch Ebola or something like that?_ As she pondered in silence, she hadn't noticed the quietness that had accumulated around her. Everyone was in their seats now, and a lady dressed in a nice black skirt walked up to the podium with a handful of papers.

"Testing mic. One, two, three . . ." she said through the loudspeaker, placing the papers down in front of her as she adjusted the microphone on the podium. Her voice snapped Sam back into reality, and so did it anyone else who might've drifted off into their thoughts. To keep things simple, the woman's name was Marlene, and she was one of the local leaders of the _Save the Children Foundation._ Sam first came to know her through the radio, where she spoke in interviews talking about the foundation, and where she often tried to promote love as a common part of people's lives—this alone fueled Sam's admiration for her—and therefore created a following. "Can you guys hear me out there?" she asked the audience childishly.

"Yes," they replied.

Marlene, pleased with their answer, slightly adjusted the papers—probably making sure everything written on the first page was correct—and, before looking back up, coughed into her fist. The glasses on her face were riding along the bridge of her nose, and so she quickly fixed them, sighed, taking her time to study all the faces, and began her speech.

"Before we begin," she said, "I would like to thank all of our donors for supporting the _Save The Children Fundraiser._ So, when I call your name, I'd like for you to stand up and give everyone a great big smile and wave." A moment passed and nothing was said as Marlene quickly scanned through the list of names. "David Schneider," she said, looking back up, her glasses once again drooped beneath her eyes. The room echoed with claps and cheers as a nice looking man wearing a gray sweater stood up. David or "Dave" was one of the first members to join the foundation back in 2013. He was a middle aged man with rigid facial features, a broad chest, well trimmed brown hair, pale blue eyes, a freshly shaved chin, and a pair of thick, authoritative eyebrows.

Sam smirked when he gave them all a humble bow and a healthy pink smile. "Thank you," his lips said, but you couldn't hear them through all the clapping and cheering. David then returned to his seat with a satisfied expression on his pleasant face, and Marlene continued down the list. There were about a dozen names, but only three should be noted. Mason Galloway: a handsome young man of twenty one, and who was also a well respected representative for the foundation; Abigail "Abby" Jones: a good friend of Sam's (she donated two thousand dollars to the fundraiser—the most out of anybody); and a boy no older than fifteen named Franklin Griffith, who, in fact, was Marlene's nephew.

All three of them—as different as different could be—had one thing in common. And that was their relationships with Sam. Mason had fallen head over heels for her the first moment he saw her, always trying to sit as close to her as possible, which Sam didn't mind. Abigail, as I previously mentioned, was one of Sam's closest friends in the group. And Franklin—well, he was a miscreant; a sarcastic, obnoxious little person that was every bit like Josh; they could've been long lost cousins as far as Sam knew. They both shared the same smug smirk, sported the same cheeky laugh, and their eyes both were developed with mischief. Some might've found traits such as those to be a nuisance, Sam, however, found them to be exciting and interesting. Only a select few people in Sam's life fell into the esteemed category of so annoying that they're funny—Josh being on the top of the list.

Once all the names were called, and after Marlene addressed everyone in the room about the upcoming Africa trip, they were dismissed. Sam would be leaving on April 21st 2017 and would spend roughly three weeks in multiple African countries, though the exact countries weren't discussed; she figured they'd talk more about it next week.

As Sam was heading out the door, her purse in tow, and her wallet in her pocket, she felt Mason's hand softly grip her shoulder. She turned and smiled. He was a very handsome fella: dark blue eyes, a thin pair of lips, nicely cut brown hair, and dimples—Sam loved dimples.

"Hey, Sam," he said confidently, letting go of her shoulder and shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was just wondering . . ." his speech began to dwindle into shyness. "Would you like to go and have lunch with me today? I was thinking we could go to this little diner down the road . . ." Trailing off in a jumbled mess of words, he silenced himself when Sam nodded her head.

"I'd love to," she replied happily. Knowing his intentions were romantic, she couldn't find it in herself to deny his tenderhearted request, even if she didn't feel the same way. Inside her heart, she believed Mason could make for a potentially wonderful friend, though she bit back on her lip as she thought about how exactly she would explain to him that she wasn't interested in any sort of boyfriend girlfriend contract. _I guess I'll just have to break the news to him over lunch,_ she thought to herself, getting into her car, and checking her mirrors. After waiting for the last car to pull out behind her, Sam put the car into reverse, but immediately stomped on the break when she saw Mason walking down the sidewalk. Curious, she drove up beside him and rolled down the window. He must've not noticed her, so she called out to him: "Don't you have a ride?" she asked, and he halted to give her a passing glance.

"Not today. No." His response was calm, as if this wasn't the first time he had to walk the twenty miles back home. He was in good shape, Sam could tell by the bulging biceps beneath his jacket's sleeves, so she didn't worry about the journey being too much for him to handle; but a part of her felt sorry that nobody was there to pick him up. She could only see one solution.

Unlocking the passenger door, "Jump in," she said. The radio was blaring out through the speakers, and she quickly turned it down as he simply shrugged.

"Um." He thought for a moment. "Okay, sure." He smirked, jogged around the vehicle, opened the door, and gladly took his seat. They crossed eyes and his smirk widened. "Thanks a ton, Sam. I really appreciate it." He held back his next couple of sentences and asked: "I'm not troubling you am I? I can just walk home if you got other stuff to do." By the sound of his voice, Sam could tell he wasn't sincere in his offering to walk home instead, but she figured he only said it out of habit and good manners.

"No, no," she repeated kindly. "It's no problem at all. We are friends after all." Hoping that he would get the hint, she put a lot of effort into that last sentence. _Friends,_ she thought. _Just friends._

Mason wasn't a dense person, and he made that clear to everyone. He always had something intelligent to say, always had something worthwhile for the subject at hand, and he always knew when a girl wasn't interested. _Damn it,_ he thought sourly. He knew right then what it was Sam saw him as: a friend and nothing more. And all it took for him to realize this was one single sentence. Inwardly, he screamed, but outwardly, his smile never fading, he said: "Of course!" He nudged her arm playfully with his elbow, chuckling like a little school girl. "That's what friends are for, right?" Again, his insides boiled a hot red, and he tried his best not to blush; but the blush came, Sam noticed it, then it went, and everything seemed to be okay in the world.

In the end, no feelings were hurt, and no one was left stranded in an abyss of obscure emotions. Mason's approach to Sam had been direct—his token of love obviously open to her—but now that she had finally refused him, he could carry on with his life—maybe, even try his luck with the beautiful girl named Sarah who always seemed to sit a row behind him.

The majority of the drive was spent in silence, his mind now scattered to the wind, only for it to come together on the cute little green eyes of his new devoted love. "Do you really think I got a chance with her?" he asked. The silence had inevitably been replaced with giddy conversation.

Sam's eyes appeared to have all the answers in the world. "If I know you, Mason," she said, after a small glance toward his benevolent features, "you can have any girl you want. Sarah won't even know what hit her."

It was words like this that gave Mason all the hope in the world. He hadn't even noticed that they were sitting in his driveway until he peered outside his window and saw all the familiarity of home: the morning lawn basking in a moist dew underneath a bright sky, while the colorful trees in the backyard swayed with the gentle bouts of wind. Mason, holding an expression of contentment over his surroundings, exited the vehicle, waved goodbye to Sam, and hurried inside so he could text Sarah. As Sam sat there for another minute, she received a message.

 _Mason: Oh, by the way, I think I'm going to invite Sarah for lunch instead. I hope that's okay with you._

Sam smiled.

 _Sam: Absolutely._

* * *

 _ **November 17th Wednesday 2016**_

 _ **9:00 am**_

 _ **Sergeant Jeffery Hancock**_

 _ **Near the mines of Mount Washington . . .**_

There were two things in the world Hancock hated: creepy, mysterious underground lairs, and cold as balls temperatures. He shoveled through the knee high snow until he reached a green sign in the midst of all the falling white flakes. It read: _Warning: Watch Out For Wildlife._ He then wiped away the bits of snow that stuck to the bottom, revealing the images of all the different kinds of animals he could potentially run into. Bears being the biggest threat, of course.

He'd been assigned to the Washington case for what felt like a decade now; and a part of him was getting tired of all the journeys he had to make to this damn mountain. He bit hard on his blue lip, fumbling around inside his fur jacket, pulling out a box of cigars, and a lighter. Without taking off his gloves, he lit the smoke, popped it into his mouth, and carried on down the snow covered trail. The entrance to the mines was only a half a mile off, and he needed to get there soon.

The task was a simple one—and it was the same task he'd been doing for quite a while. It was searching for any sort of clues that could be used to relate back to last year, when the Washington lodge was destroyed, and eight teens were found all bruised and bloody, with one of them, Joshua Washington, having been found lost inside the mines themselves. It was a case curdled in mystery; nobody knew what happened that fateful night; and it was something Hancock wished they could just bury along with all the other unsolvable cases.

"Have you found anything?" he heard his partner's voice from behind.

Hancock rolled his eyes and chucked his cigar into the snow. "What do you think? Have we ever found _anything_ on this fucking trail? I swear to God, I'm just gonna have to go into early retirement." He angrily brushed the snow off his shoulders and neck before turning his head to see where the other man was—Johnson had been his name; and he was right behind him.

"Why don't you take it up with the sheriff?"

"That old pile of shit doesn't give a damn about anything," Hancock growled; and he growled a second time upon seeing the entrance to the mines. It was as dark and foreboding as he remembered it. Almost seeming to say: "If you come in, you're never coming out." Surrounding it was black, ashy snow and a jungle of fallen trees, and to the west was a small tool shed. There, as Hancock had already seen before, was where all the mining equipment was stored: rusty pickaxes, broken saws, chipped shovels, etc. It only made him hate the location even more.

Days, weeks, months were spent lurking through corridor after corridor, going from one side of the center of the Earth to the other. Hancock believed it a miracle that he hadn't been crushed yet—on bad days the mines would rumble, and dirt holding the walls together would start chipping away. What kept the entire thing from collapsing? Often thought Hancock. Only God knew.

"So . . ." They halted once they reached the end of the trail, staring into the dark mouth that was the entrance to the Blackwood mining system. Hancock raised a brow when he thought he heard a voice crying from within. He and Johnson both looked at each other worriedly.

"Did you hear that?" Johnson asked terrified, wiping away the warm sweat that had defied the laws of nature from his forehead. The temperature was far below freezing, and, somehow, he was sweating? Hancock couldn't understand how that was possible, but he hardly had time to think about it when he heard another screech. It was quiet enough so neither could understand what it said, but it was loud enough to send a chill down both their spines.

Pulling out his holstered pistol, Hancock silently motioned for Johnson to follow him, whispering for his partner to turn on the flashlight hooked to his belt. Johnson did exactly as he was instructed, and they quickly made their way into the darkness, where a tainted odor rose into their noses. Hancock, covering his nose, pointed for Johnson to shine his light to the east side. Dozens of broken pipes were revealed to be leaking a foul green liquid. _Sewage?_ Thought Hancock, squinting his eyes, gripping his pistol a little tighter. _No. No. That doesn't make any sense. Why would sewage pipe_ _s_ _be in a mine?_ Johnson's expression was similar to his: confused.

"What do you think that is?" he asked.

Hancock, without answering, took a few steps forward. The odor became more and more potent the closer he got to it. The liquid had spread all across the ground, and it appeared to foam up the longer it sat there undisturbed. Creaks shackled through the pipes, and Hancock couldn't keep himself from leaning over and looking to see where they might've led to. Using his right hand, he brought Johnson over to shine the flashlight into the open pipes. The rust was surreal, one could easily scrape off pounds of it with a spoon. "They seem to go straight into the wall," Hancock observed, he talked as if nobody other than himself was there. "I wonder how far they go . . ."

Of all the times he'd been inside the mines, not once had he ever seen such a bizarre anomaly—the likes of which was so odd that probably nobody had ever seen before. What he thought would be a regular day of mine exploration was turning into something so much more; and something inside Hancock cautioned him that he and Johnson were creeping their way into a very dangerous situation. If the reports were accurate, there'd been the possibility of a murderer roaming the woods, and, for a moment, as Hancock stood there reflecting, he thought he saw human entrails mixed in with the liquid. He squatted down beside the green slime and held his breath as best he could. "Johnson," he said, pointing to the right of him. "Hand me that stick."

Without question, Johnson picked up the stick and put it into Hancock's hand. Observantly, the Sergeant used the stick to scoop up some of the disgusting waste and brought it to his nose. One whiff of the stuff was enough to send Hancock into a coughing fit. Dropping the stick, he fell hard on his hands and knees. "Holy fuck," he whined, his arms shaking. "That's wretched."

Johnson ran to his partner's side and helped him to his feet. Laughing, he patted Hancock's back childishly. "Didn't your mamma ever tell you not to go smelling weird green shit?"

Using his sleeve to wipe the snot from his runny nose, Hancock glared spitefully at Johnson, and was about to say something, but was cut off by an ear piercing screech. "What the fuck was that?" Hancock withheld his voice as much as he could—trying his best not to alert whatever was in the mines with them. He carefully turned to Johnson, who had now drawn his own pistol, and said quietly: "We need to get out of here." He hadn't noticed it until now, but his whole body was quivering.

Johnson nodded urgently. "I couldn't agree more." And he started walking briskly back to the entrance. There was one problem however; and it came in the form of a large boarded up wall. "What the hell?" Johnson's eyes nearly shot out of their sockets from both the shock and terror he somehow managed to wrap himself in. Desperately, he clawed at the wooden boards, kicked them, even tried to climb over, but when he fell onto his back after failing, he nearly shouted: "What the fuck happened to the entrance?" He kept his pistol drawn as he stumbled back up to his feet, leaning his body at an exhausted angle against the wall blocking their path.

Meanwhile, Hancock was searching around for another way to go. He didn't know how; but they must've taken a wrong turn. He shifted through the dark, guided only by the light of his cellphone. Eventually, he discovered a blue tarp—it was old and torn around the edges—and it appeared to be covering a mound of some sort. _Don't look under it,_ pleaded his mind; but curiosity got the better of him. Without much thought of what exactly the tarp was hiding, he holstered his pistol, swapped his cellphone to his left hand, and used his right to peel back the covering. And what he saw almost made him drop to his knees and die right there on the spot. "Oh . . . my . . . God." Laid out before him was a pile of skeletons and pieces of rotted flesh. He shielded his eyes and let out a scream of terror; unwilling to look at the scene a moment longer, he threw the tarp back over it, and thought. _I gotta get to Johnson. I—_

But his thoughts were cut off when he heard his partner's blood curdling scream vibrate through the pipes above him. Hancock's heart beat so fast that he almost collapsed due to a heart attack. Grabbing hold of his pistol, checking the clip, he bolted through the tunnels as fast as he could, looking down every corridor he passed by. "Johnson!" he hollered, but he heard nothing resembling his partner's voice. "Johnson! Where are you?" Nothing came of his yelling, except that it alerted whoever, or, whatever, was in the mines of his presence; realizing this, he immediately shut his mouth. "Johnson?" he spoke in a whisper, hoping his voice would carry through the musty darkness. It didn't. And he soon found himself alone in an abandoned mine without food or water.

Johnson was gone, possibly even dead. Hancock pulled off his jacket, his entire body was hot and heavy with some of the worst emotions. His internal temperature had to be over a hundred degrees, and he experienced an awful pain in his gut. Everywhere he looked there was nothing but dirt, wood, and endless black; the smells he smelt were of half decayed rat corpses—the green liquid oozing from the pipes had vanished from existence. And he roamed hopelessly through the mines, tasting the dryness of the dirt in his mouth, his joints throbbing, and his head busting.

Darkness and death. That was all to be found in these mines. And Hancock knew that if he didn't find a way out soon, his own bones would be added to the mound.

* * *

 _ **November 17th 2016 Wednesday**_

 _ **9:30 am**_

 _ **Josh**_

There was only one person on Josh's mind right now, and it was Elliot. He remembered their talk at the jailhouse, remembered his promise, and so he spent the first couple of hours of his morning searching online, trying to find even the smallest of traces of where he could begin looking. Sitting at his computer desk, he scrolled, typed, and clicked through dozens of websites that potentially could help him pinpoint the family. _I really should've asked what his last name was,_ Josh thought. _Unless_ _,_ _his last name is Elliot._ He then returned to the google homepage and typed in Roger Elliot; the search brought up dozens of Facebook pages, several twitter accounts, and some YouTube video with the title: _Roger, Elliot -The Isla Vista Virgin Killer._ Josh didn't dare click on that, instead he shoveled through the dozens of Facebook accounts.

Ten minutes passed, and he hadn't even scraped the surface of all the Roger Elliot's in the world—he thought he'd never find what he was looking for. That was, at least, until he discovered the name Lydia Elliot on his screen. _Could this be . . ._ he thought, clicking on the link, crossing his fingers as he waited anxiously for the page to load. _It is!_ The picture at the top left of the news feed was an identical copy of the woman Elliot had showed him. Their daughter was even in the background swinging on their swing set, a yellow rose in her hair, all dressed up in what seemed to be a Sunday's gown. He scrolled further down the profile and observed a few of the posts; the most recent update had been on October 23rd. It said the following: _Please, keep Marybeth in your prayers. She's caught a horrible fever._

The mention of the name Marybeth affirmed Josh that this was the right person. He'd already been logged in to his own account, so he clicked on _Send Friend Request,_ and went so far as to write her a message, reading:

 _Hello. My name is Joshua Washington. I hope you don't mind, but I would really like to meet you and your daughter. I spent a night in jail with your husband—he's a great man. I only wish the best for all three of you. He really does love you both. Hopefully, this message will reach you._

He read over the message three times, checking to make sure there weren't any grammatical mistakes—he wanted to sound professional. At long last satisfied, he pressed _Send Message_ , watched as the page refreshed, showing at the top of the screen that the message had been sent successfully, and, feeling accomplished as an honorary detective, he turned off his computer, and headed downstairs to the kitchen for a snack: an apple and a glass of cold water. _Sam's really starting to rub off on me with all this healthy shit,_ he thought to himself as he stood in front of the dishwasher, munching on the juicy fruit, and taking light sips from his glass after every other bite or so.

Melinda walked in from outside with a handful of envelopes. Upon seeing her son, she smiled, sat down on the bar stool, spread the envelopes out on the counter, and asked him: "Do you and Sam have any plans for today?"

Throwing away the apple core into the nearby trashcan, and taking one long swig of water, he walked over to her, his eyes glancing over a few of the unopened parchments, laid down his glass, and shook his head boyishly. "Nope. I ain't doin' nothin' today." Well, except for his research on Elliot's personal life, but he thought it better if he didn't mention that to his mother.

"Well, then," Melinda began, a mischievous smirk folding over her lips. "I guess you want mind going with me to see Grandma Susan at her new nursing home?"

An inaudible groan pressed between Josh's teeth, and he held back from frowning, not having a single idea what to say. He didn't hate his grandmother—he loved her dearly—but going to a nursing home was always very awkward for him. So many old people, some with Alzheimer's, and some with other horrible diseases. It reminded him of a zombie movie—how they moved around so groggily, with some not being able to move at all. Simply put, Josh hated going; and his hatred continued to grow the more he was pressured by his family. "It's not that bad," he recalled both his mom and dad telling him. And, to begin with, he believed them; but all that belief dissipated the moment he stepped through the doors and was met by a howling old lady in a wheelchair.

"I don't know . . ." he replied thoughtfully, not completing his sentence. Melinda showered over him with a critical glare. He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "What time are you going?"

"This afternoon," she said matter-of-factually as she took the envelopes off the counter, stood up, and walked into the living room. Josh followed her to the couch. She then proceeded to use her long finger nail to break the seals, and began chucking through one paper at a time, listening to Josh as he talked. The next hour was spent discussing mundane, unimportant topics ranging from what they were going to have for dinner to the weather outside. Josh returned to his room ten minutes past twelve and decided to check to see if Lydia had responded. She hadn't. He sat there in his computer chair, reached over and grabbed his phone from his bed.

 _Josh (to Sam): Can I tell you something?_

 _Sam: Depends on what that "something" is._

 _Josh: What a dirty mind you have, Sammy. No, that's not what I'm talking about. Look, this is really important—I made a promise to someone._

 _Sam: Huh. I never took you for one to make promises and keep them._

 _Josh: Well, this time is different. During my stay at the jailhouse, I met this man named Roger Elliot. We talked the whole time I was there. He was an awesome dude, and what happened to him was bullshit—though I don't think I should tell you what happened, not right now anyways. And I kinda promised him I would find and speak to his family that he hasn't seen in three months._

 _Sam: Tell me you didn't. Do you even know where to start looking? Did you even think it through with that thick skull of yours?_

 _Josh: Hey, my skull might be thick, but it's only so my massive brain doesn't seep out. That's beside the point. Afte_ _r_ _browsing the internet, I finally found his wife's Facebook page. I sent her a message asking if she wanted to meet up somewhere._

 _Sam: That's awfully sudden don't ya think?_

 _Josh: I'm doing my best, Sammy. I could do without your preaching, thanks. I need to know that you have my back on this—and your car. I'll need you to be my chaperon. Can you do that for me, Sammy? Pretty please with sugar on top?_

 _Sam: God. You're so helpless without me. Fine. I'm in._

 _Josh: Thanks, babe. Text ya later._

 _Sam: Whatever, asshole._

* * *

 _ **November 17 2016 Wednesday**_

 _ **9:45 am**_

 _ **Matt**_

Immediately after Matt realized that the stranger was indeed Mike, he hurried to the door, reflected on what he was going to say upon greeting him, twisted the knob, paused again, calmed his breathing, and finally pushed the door open. Mike halted instantly at the bottom step, his brown eyes observantly taking their time to adjust to Matt's presence. A deathly silence followed them as they both tried finding the right words.

"What are you doing here?" Matt asked, finding his breath long enough to produce sentences. His tone was filled with all the negative hostility he felt towards Mike Munroe. And the answer he wanted wasn't the answer he was given:

"I—" Mike stopped himself from uttering another sound. It was odd to Matt seeing him speechless with nervousness scribbled across his face. "Is Em' here?" he asked, taking a moment to try and look past Matt who stood with his arms crossed.

"No, she isn't," he said, conforming to the aggression that ravaged inside him. "You haven't answered my question, Mike. What are you doing here?" This wasn't going to be easy, and they each knew it. He glared down at Mike who began walking up the steps, and who stopped once his feet touched the porch. A sudden wind swept up the fallen leaves that were beneath them, forming a vortex of sorts, where the leaves drifted freely in the air.

"It's a long story," he replied. The words he spoke, and the disgusted look Matt gave him, wasn't what he wanted at all. "Look, man, I know what I did to Em' was fucked—beyond fucked—but you have to forgive me." The redness in his face only grew hotter as he paced back and forth. "I can't take it anymore!" he attempted shouting, but it came out as only a loud whisper. He rested his right hand over his pulsing head, and Matt allowed him a moment to gather himself.

He studied Mike closely, and what was once anger and resentment changed into empathy and compassion. Patting his shoulder, Matt offered for him to come inside. "It's okay, man," he repeated several times. "I forgive you." But would Emily?

They sat down in separate chairs across from one another. Mike had managed to regain his composure and was left in a decent mood. "How's Jess doing?" Matt asked him. There came a glint in Mike's eyes that told him that she wasn't doing all that great.

"Pretty good—for the most part," he said, though Matt caught his lie, but said nothing concerning it, allowing the topic to die just as quickly as it had entered the conversation—obviously, Mike didn't want to discuss the details concerning Jessica. "We moved in together in December . . . " He was going to expound upon what he was saying, but was interrupted when Matt leaned in and asked:

"Are you working anywhere?"

Mike, slightly annoyed, nodded his head. "Yeah, I am. It's an old airplane manufacturer—the job pays good money, but the hours can get a little ridiculous. I'm off today." He paused for a few seconds, glancing once at his boots, and then to the television. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about Blackwood," he admitted chillingly. The light inside his eyes slowly started to fade. "I've been having nightmares—fucking nightmares." Cupping his forehead inside his palms, he sighed without letting Matt hear him, and slightly peered upwards at the ceiling, harboring an expression that said: "I'm drowning. Somebody help." He then cast a glance into Matt's face, tried to smile, failed, and tried again, but failed again. "And Em' . . . I should've never pulled that gun on her. I was scared—irrational—and it almost cost someone their life." Shamefully, he looked away from Matt's sympathetic gaze. The scars on his left hand hadn't healed properly since the bear trap accident—the skin was still raw, as if it occurred yesterday. It was a painful reminder of what happened that night, and it was something he'd always carry with him.

Matt understood where he was coming from. If he knew anything about people, it's that there's no telling how far they will go during dire circumstances. Emily, however, despite knowing that herself, still refused consolation; and it damaged not only her relationship with Matt, but with her family as well. The sincerity in Mike's tone established the foundation that Matt required in order to fully forgive him—simpler terms: it was a good start, but Mike had a long way to go until total redemption. "None of us were thinking straight," Matt attempted, but was cut off.

"No, I'm not going to use that as an excuse." Mike shook his head, thought an extra moment, reflecting upon himself, and hardened his face. "What I did . . . it was horrible—I would've fucking shot her if it wasn't for Sam and Ashley—fuck!" His forehead hid itself once more behind his hands. "I would've shot her," he mumbled desperately to himself, as if he was trying to make sense of it all.

It was difficult for Matt to find the appropriate words—they were dangling right in front of his eyes, yet he couldn't pronounce them the way he wanted; so, his response came out emotionless, which was unusual for him. "You have to get it together, Mike." He reminded himself of Emily. "You can't let what happened in the past wear you down. What about Jess? Don't you want to live for her?"

"Of course I do," Mike replied, sounding offended by the accusation of him not caring about Jessica's well being. "She's the only thing keeping me somewhat grounded right now. I don't know what I'd do without her . . ."

"Good," Matt said, smiling for half a second. "That's what you need to do. Think about Jessica and how she needs you—and I _know_ she loves you. I'd even go as far as to say you two are interconnected with each other."

"What the hell does that mean?" Mike asked.

"Err . . ." Matt paused. "Okay, maybe interconnected wasn't the right word." He felt the warmth in his cheeks and chuckled awkwardly to himself—Mike's gaze never leaving his. "You two are meant for each other," he decided to go with. "Like, your souls are one in the same."

Mike raised a brow, still not fully understanding.. "Uh-huh . . ." he spoke. "I'll keep that in mind—try to at least." The conversation was turning over for the better, and Mike could feel himself coming to better terms with everything that happened. He was glad that Matt was willing to talk to him without any kind of hostility—other than when they met at the door. And he left in a much better mood than when he arrived.

"Thanks, man," Mike said, opening the door and stepping outside.

Matt followed him for a time, stopping at the edge of the porch, as he watched his friend open the door to the Volkswagen. Smirking, he shouted: "You might want to think about getting a new ride! It's kinda embarrassing!"

Laughing, Mike flipped him off, tempted to say something, but instead got into his car and drove off. Meanwhile, Matt remained on the porch, watching as the car vanished into the horizon. For a moment there, his spirit seemed to soar with the birds—a delivered wave of happiness far beyond what he was accustomed to. And, as he absorbed everything around him, he began to whistle merrily, stepping back inside, and sat down on the sofa, reaching for the remote on the coffee table, and flipped on the television: _The Pacific_ was playing on HBO. It was one of Matt's favorite mini series; though the similarities between Snafu and Josh was downright frightening.

He'd be at work soon, but, for now, he wished to relax and enjoy what time he had to himself.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**


	6. Chapter 5 Part 1

**A/N: I'm back!**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 5 Part 1**

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **1:00 am**_

 _ **Sergeant Jeffery Hancock**_

 _ **Near the mines of Mount Washington . . .**_

Hours seemingly passed by unnoticed as Hancock hopelessly made his way through the mines, his only guidance being the small flashlight he'd kept in his pocket. He attempted multiple phone calls, but the reception was nonexistent—blocked by the hundreds of pounds of dirt above his head—while his mind focused on the task of simply putting one foot in front of the other. The heat brought a horrible stench to his armpits, and there came a moment he thought about taking off his shirt, but decided against it due to the fact he didn't want the burden of having to carry it.

He'd not seen or heard anything for several hours. The screeching had halted just as quickly as it began, and Johnson remained nowhere to be found. Hancock knew his partner well, knew that he could take care of himself, but, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't part from the worry that shrouded his every thought, dictating his every action. Something horrible was festering beneath his skin, and he could feel it. Something he hadn't experienced in forever: fear.

Around him, every half hour or so, the earth would shake; and each time it did, Hancock found himself latching onto the nearest wooden beam, praying to God that the mountain wouldn't bury him. _It hasn't collapsed yet, so why would it now?_ was what he told himself during those brief instances of panic and alarm. Being shot at, stabbed, and other police related instances, were like a walk in the park compared to being lost inside an unstable mine, and Hancock knew that if he somehow managed to escape, he'd have to return for Johnson—leaving a man behind wasn't in his nature, especially when that man was his friend.

Hancock and Johnson both met each other three years ago at a small coffee shop early in the morning. The air was humid, the wind wet with cold rain, and a mist so thick you could barely see more than three feet in front of you. They'd both been on duty and were mutually pleased to greet one another, having taken their seats closest to the door and near a big window that they could look out and see both their parked vehicles.

Their conversation lasted for about fifteen minutes, and they talked about all sorts of topics, most of which brought smiles and laughs between them. Hancock learned that Johnson had three young girls and a wife named Jacqueline, who they called Jackie for short, and that he used to be a high school math teacher. Everything about Johnson was simple and good hearted. He'd grown up with two parents and a house full of brothers and sisters, spent a lot of time with his cousins, and was well liked in the community even as a child.

Hancock, however, was the polar opposite. Whereas Johnson lived a simple, yet elegant life, Hancock lived the life of a poor kid with parents who spent more money on drugs than they did food and clothes. He was an only child with very few friends and was infamously renowned as a kid with a bad attitude, and he would often get caught stealing from the local food mart about a mile from the ransacked little trailer he called a home.

It wasn't until he was fifteen that his mother overdosed and was buried behind an old church they used to go to every other Sunday. Hancock never recalled the feelings that ate away at him that day when they put her in the ground. Relatives said it was bitterness, coldness—to hate a mother who was never there for him—but Hancock found their guessing games aggravating and thus moved far away from them when he turned eighteen.

From then on, he never mentioned a word about his upbringing, not to his friends, not even to his past girlfriends. There was just something about remembering such awful memories that frightened Hancock, to relive the past seemed like the road to Hell itself. And it was because of this apathetic stance that he never married, never fathered any of his own children. He spent many days in his house alone, pouring himself endless amounts of vodka and whatever other alcoholic drink he could get his hands on.

It wasn't until now, as his life hanged by a thread, as darkness consumed him and fear grabbed him, did he finally realize how trivial and irrelevant it all was. To have lived a shameful life, all the while trying his damnedest to right so many wrongs, only to have befallen a fate of suffocating inside a mine . . .

Hancock, trying to shake away the thoughts, wiped the dirt off his face, looked at his phone, which was at any moment about to go dead, and cursed helplessly beneath his breath when he saw how late it was, though it didn't really make that much difference. The mine was so dark and dank that anyone could easily lose track of time.

Exhausted, he sat down and closed his eyes. He kept pace with his breathing, inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly. Sweat dribbled down his cheeks, and he could feel the dirt wedging its way into his undergarments. There was only the silence to keep him company. And upon opening his eyes once more, he dared look forward, but was yet again greeted by the black gaping mouth of the mines. Then poured in the thoughts.

 _I'm going to die here. Alone. Johnson's probably dead. Goddamn it! What am I supposed to do? If I keep going, I'm just gonna get myself even more lost. There has to be a way out. Maybe, I should try my cellphone again. Fuck! It's dead. I . . ._

Immediately, from somewhere in the shadows, he saw what looked to be movement. He jumped to his feet and drew his pistol. "Who's there?" he asked the darkness; and when no one answered, he broke out into a fast walk, constantly checking over his shoulder. The heart inside him beat heavily, and already he began to lose his breath. Drums of sweat ate away at the pores on his face as his walking soon turned into running. True, he couldn't see what was in front of him, but his flashlight produced just enough light for him to find a small tucked in room behind several wooden barrels and a metal fence.

Without hesitation, he turned off his flashlight, leaped over the barrels, and collapsed flat on his stomach so he would remain unseen, keeping completely still and holding his breath. He could hear the softest sounds of someone's feet skimming over the ground, followed by deep, almost hungry, breathing.

Hancock swallowed his heart as it attempted to jump out of his throat in terror. _Don't move. Don't fucking move,_ he continued telling himself. It was almost as if the unknown entity was breathing down his neck, its breath all crusted and rotten; and in the back of Hancock's mind he knew that whatever it was, it wasn't human. How could it be? All signs pointed to some kind of beast. A bear, perhaps? Maybe, it was just as lost as he was; maybe . . .

"No! No! Let go of me!"

Sudden cries then thundered through the tunnels as another set of feet passed by him. He could hear Johnson being dragged on the ground by his legs on the other side of the fence. Hancock shook all over while his partner desperately cried for help. _What do I do?_ he thought frantically, slowly reaching to his side where his pistol was holstered.

"No! No! Someone! Jeff! Get off me!"

It was too dark for Hancock to see what exactly was happening, but whatever it was, he knew that Johnson was in serious trouble. _Shit! Shit! Shit!_ His thoughts swam hectically around the pool of his brain; and as Johnson's voice slowly disappeared into the mines, along with the footsteps and heavy breathing from the creatures, Hancock, as quiet as possible, returned to his feet and slowly stepped out from behind the barrels and fence.

Bending down, he turned his flashlight back on and began studying the ground. He noticed a trail in the dirt from where Johnson had been dragged, and beside it were two sets of feet with long toes and extraordinarily sharp nails at the tips, almost like claws. The indents they made in the dirt were alienated and bizarre, he'd never seen such tracks in his life; and this grave realization only made Hancock shiver.

 _I need to get out of here. Now._ Coming to terms with the situation, he decided to turn around and start down the path opposite from which Johnson and the creatures went, but stopped himself when a strong wave of guilt came to. "You can't leave your friend behind," it told him. Biting back on his tongue, he looked over his shoulder, staring into the darkness that curdled behind him, mumbling, "I'm dead, so fucking dead."

He then began to follow the trail in hopes that he could save his friend; and _if_ they managed to get out alive, he'd definitely be owed a few drinks.

* * *

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **10:00 am**_

 _ **Josh**_

Josh sat quietly by his lonesome on the porch, constantly checking his phone, waiting as patiently as he could for Sam to arrive in her shitty little Honda. It was only an hour since Roger's wife had finally replied to his message. It read:

 _You're a friend of Roger's? I would like to hear how he's doing, but I also need to let you know that Marybeth is very uncomfortable around men. I'd really appreciate it if you brought a nice lady with you so she can talk and play with her._

Josh had replied: _I understand completely. There's a really close friend of mine who'll be coming with me. Her name's Sam, and I'm sure they'll get along great!_

The remainder of their conversation was nothing more than exchanging information: phone numbers, addresses, etc. And with all of that over and out of the way, Josh felt confident in not only himself, but also in Sam's ability to cater to a traumatized child. Though explaining everything to her might've been a serious obstacle for him. After all, he'd only asked her to drive him there.

It was twenty past ten when she at long last pulled into the driveway. Smiling, Josh greeted her at the bottom step. As per usual, he couldn't help but notice the simplistic beauty of her attire, the little strand of blonde hair over her left eye, and the depth and fullness of her cheeks. If he'd been a poet, he might've said something detailing her nice smile; but, alas, he was not a poet, nor was he a ladies man, so what ended up coming out of his mouth was rather juvenile and awkward.

"Man, if you were a chicken you'd be impeccable." He smirked as she stood silently with an unbelieving hand over her forehead. "What did you think? I've been working on that one all night long."

"Just . . . get in the car," she replied, opening both their doors, trying to hide the ridiculous giggling that began to form in her throat. "And try to hold back on the compliments, Romeo." She could still feel the redness forming under her face's skin, even as she sat down in her seat, looking over at Josh as he sat beside her, and putting the car into reverse.

Once they were on the road, and Josh could no longer see his house, he reached over to the radio and started tuning into whatever was playing. "I'm guessing you don't have any CDs," he spoke with a slight smirk on his face, knowing her answer before she even opened her mouth.

"Not with me, no." She gave him a quick glance, saying, "But I do have an Ipod. It's in the back floorboard inside my gym bag. You better not mess, all my clothes are to stay _in_ the bag."

Josh acted offended. "What do you take me for, Sammy? Some kind of slob?"

"Slob doesn't even begin to cover it," she snapped back, though in her mind couldn't help but to enjoy the sarcastic, almost sweet look he was giving her. "Stop staring at me," she went on to say, a small amount of laughter attached to each word. "I dunno how anyone puts up with you."

"Easy," he said, reaching for her gym bag, shifting through all the dirty clothes, "I'm rich, funny, and one handsome stud." After two pairs of sweatpants, three tank tops, and one headband, he located the silver case of the Ipod and brought it out, looking to Sam as if waiting for more directions.

She noticed this immediately, and, for only a moment, opened the glove department to the right of her and pulled out an orange wire and handed it to him.

Josh, never having seen such a thing in his life, looked dumbly at Sam. "What the hell is this thing for?"

Sighing, Sam replied: "It's what hooks the Ipod to the stereo. Do you need a handbook or something? That's what people with shitty cars use."

With his jaw agape: "No WiFi?"

"No WiFi."

"Well, shit." Josh couldn't believe his ears, and once he managed to hook up the Ipod to the radio, he mumbled to himself, but it was loud enough for Sam to hear, "How do poor people live like this?"

"I heard that," she scoffed, pressing down on the break as they arrived to a red light. In front of them were two white cars and a truck that was filled with a bunch of rednecks. Sam and Josh knew this because they could hear the country music blaring out through the people's windows.

Annoyed, Josh and Sam, like they were the same mind, rolled up their own windows, and looked at each other with goofy looks; but it was Josh who was the first to say something when he could make out a couple in the truck making out: "Ten bucks says they're brother and sister."

Playfully, Sam slapped his arm. "You're horrible. They're obviously cousins."

Josh busted out into laughter. "Damn, Sam! You actually said something hilarious for once. I gotta write this down in my journal."

"You have a journal?" Sam asked. "Since when?"

Josh rolled his eyes as he thought back to the day he was first handed one. "My doctor thought it would be a good idea." Pausing, he looked outside and watched a couple of cars whiz by. "At first, I thought it was a stupid idea. I mean, come on, diaries are for little girls, but . . ."

Sam interrupted him when she leaned over with one eyebrow raised: "But what?"

Once again they met eyes, and Josh shrunk down into his seat as if the question was a matter of extreme discomfort. Though he'd never admit that the reason behind his shyness was due to the way her nose wrinkled up whenever her expression was one of curiosity. "Eh," he shrugged, "it's nothing major."

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't think it was important," she replied. The friendliness in her tone, the way her eyes swapped back and forth from the road to him . . . it was like every movement she made was graceful and charming; and before Josh even knew it, he was stumbling around with his words like a little school boy.

"Well . . ." He then coughed into his hand, sat back up, and prepared himself for the little speech he was going to make. "What I'm about to say," he began, slowly cascading around in the back of his mind, "I don't want it to ever leave this car."

"Of course," Sam answered honestly. "You can trust me one hundred percent." He noticed her eyes constantly switching from him and the road.

"Nobody knows this, but," he took a breath, "ever since I got out of jail, and I saw you in the parking lot with Chris and my mom, I've been carrying the journal everywhere I go." Hesitantly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black leather piece and started to silently flake through the pages. His face grew dark and nervous, as if life hung in the balance of this journal of his, and Sam realized herself to be highly intrigued.

"Can you read me some of the entries?" she asked. "Only if you're okay with it."

Josh nodded his head. "Yeah, I guess I'll read some to you. I'll start with the first one. I wrote it as soon as I got home that night from jail." There then came a numbness he felt in his hands as he began to read.

"November 13th 2016 Saturday—This is the first time I've ever written in a diary, and I'm still cold to the fact that it's what my doctor recommended. He told me that it's important that I document my feelings, but thing was, at the time, I didn't feel a thing. It was as if all the anger, hate, and sadness left my mind just like my sanity—a dilemma of the apathetic. My fate entangled in the substance of the endless void, where no ears could hear me, where no eyes could see me . . . to live in total isolation. You could say that I grew accustomed to it, acknowledged the fact that nothing was going to be the same, that nothing was going to get better.

But then, out of nowhere, when I was on my last legs, there came a light. A small light, a gentle light, a light that I feared at first, but eventually came to embrace. And once I did, the black world around me became colorful. Reds, blues, greens, yellows . . . It was like my life was offered an artist's stroke. Through pain I learned determination. Through weakness I learned strength. Through fear I learned bravery. Through friends I learned forgiveness. And through you I learned to love again."

There soon followed a silence; but it wasn't an awkward silence. It was calm, like allowing the soft current of a cold stream to flow between your toes.

"So, what did you think?" came Josh's first question, snapping them both out of a daze.

"It was . . ." Sam paused and thought for a moment. "It was really good. I never took you to be a poet. Holy cow. I guess . . ."

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on," he interrupted her train of thought loudly. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I don't even understand half of what I wrote."

Sam looked at him for a long moment; her eyes solely focused on him for the few seconds she spared from driving. "Okay, okay, I believe you," she laughed. "Obviously, you're not a poet; but I do have one question."

"Okay, what is it?"

"Who was the "you" in that last sentence?"

"Easy, it was Barney the Dinosaur. Remember the song?" He began to sing: "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family . . ."

"Stop it." Sam smiled, tempted to smack him for a second time. "I'm being serious."

"How do you know that I'm not?" he asked, but was quickly put into his place after the sharp glare she gave him. "Okay! Sheesh. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes."

"Are you _really_ sure you want to know?"

"I'm going to choke you . . ."

"Hey, no reason to get hostile, Sammy. I'll tell you." He turned away from her, mumbling, "Someday." Suddenly, he felt her hand grab his shoulder.

"Nu-uh. You're going to tell me, now."

"You already know who it is," he spoke quietly, his eyes darting to the floorboard.

"I know," she replied, her expression in a state of honesty. "But I want to hear you say it."

There weren't many times in Josh's life to describe the way he felt right then. He'd known fear, anger, sadness, confusion, all life's trials and tribulations, for most of his time on earth. In the end, he always considered himself a loner—a friend to some, but an enemy to many. He lived the life of a man paved over with concrete, untouched by the world around him. But as he sat there and looked into Sam's eyes, he could feel that concrete slowly begin to chip away; and the feelings of warmth, security, and a realness he'd never experienced, began to bloom inside him.

When the time came that he returned to his senses, they were parked on the side of the road, cars driving by them; and he discovered himself to be holding the hand of the only woman he ever truly cared for, and thus, as they kissed one another with the passion and fire of any youthful relationship, Josh allowed himself to be overtaken by these new feelings.

If I were to attempt to describe to you the rush of being in the arms of the one you love, all I could really say is that one's experience is never the same as another's. The beauty of love itself is found in the excitement, the peaceful trance, of two fragile hearts together.

The kiss lasted for what was an eternity—there are few feelings akin to kissing the one you love for the very first time—and when they broke away from one another, they were caught by a silence.

"Well, ahem," Josh began with a smile, his face red and his heart beating soundly. "Shall we go? We still got the whole day ahead of us. I mean, sheesh, what time is it . . ." He rolled up his sleeve to look at his watch, but ended up embarrassing himself when he realized he wasn't wearing one.

Sam, however, looked away from him for a moment. And as she solemnly tried to make some sense of the whole situation, Josh softly took her by the arm.

"Are we insane? We have to be insane." It was obvious by his tone that he was extremely unsure. Was it just a moment of weakness for them both? That they simply gave into their desires? What sort of negative consequences would they be undertaking if they pursued this?

"I . . ." she hoped to answer. "I don't know." In an attempt to return her focus, she grabbed the wheel, turned the key, looked behind her to make sure no other cars were coming, and drove back onto the road. "Let's just focus on getting there," she decided for them both.

Josh nodded in agreement. "Yeah, of course, we'll talk about this later. Right now we ought to stay on task. I got the directions right here. . . ."

* * *

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **11:30 am**_

 _ **Matt**_

He'd awoken to one thing on his mind: telling Emily about Mike's visit. For the majority of the morning he remained to himself, huddled up on the couch, drinking coffee and watching SportsCenter. Meanwhile, Emily had her nose buried in some book, not bothering to acknowledge the presence of her boyfriend sitting right beside her.

Most attempts to start a conversation failed, and Matt was slowly beginning to become annoyed by the fact. _Why is she so difficult?_ he contemplated over and over again in his head. Turning from the television, he wore a look that said: "Stop being a cunt for no reason." Though his better judgment told him that it would be best not to anger her. After all, Emily could be as ferocious as a volcano if tempered, and Matt had come to learn that through experience.

"Is everything okay?" he asked her carefully. Tone was everything when it came to talking with Emily.

She looked up from her book for a brief second and glared at him. "What do you think?" she fired, furiously turning and skimming over the next page, but then looked back up to glare at him for a moment longer. Matt's sympathetic gape only fueled the fire burning inside her. "If I want your pity I'll ask for it, okay?"

"Alright, sorry I asked," he answered bitterly, his face developing a frown.

Emily noticed the expression and slammed shut her book. "Matt, look at me," she said, directing his eyes into her own as she heavily grabbed his shoulder. The heat radiating from her was not friendly, but instead was soaked in aggravation. "You know I don't like it when you keep secrets from me," she continued, but was immediately interrupted when Matt pulled away from her grasp.

"I would've already told you if you wasn't being such a . . ." He canceled his sentence on the basis that he wished to get through at least one day without a serious argument.

"Such a what?" she asked angrily, but then realized she cared not the slightest bit. "How about you spare me your petty insults and tell me the truth for once." Her furious gaze fell upon Matt's distraught eyes. "Go ahead," she urged when he said nothing. "Do you take me for an idiot, Matthew? Did you really think I wouldn't figure out about you sleeping around with other women?"

Such an accusation instantly created a tenseness between them—a tenseness that Matt never wanted to be in again; and so, with as much honesty he could, said: "What? Are you crazy? Do you really think I'd be willing to ruin everything we've worked for?" He simply couldn't take the shock away from her statement. _How long has she been thinking this?_

Scowling and crossing her arms, Emily stood up and walked into the kitchen. "I don't know with you, Matt," she said, pouring herself a glass of water.

"You know I'd never . . ." Matt pleaded as he followed her. "What made you think something like that?" He attempted to squeeze her in his arms, but she pulled away.

"Don't touch me," she scolded him. Placing the glass on the table, she brought out a small apple from the pantry and handed it to Matt. "Peel this for me," she demanded as she sat down on the barstool beside the counter.

It never occurred to him to complain about such a simple task, and after he finished removing the apple's skin with a knife, he walked over to her and said with a bow. "Here you are, Your Imperial Majesty."

The apple was ripe and juicy, sweet even. "I don't think you realize the trouble you're in," she said between each bite. "Whatever it is you're not telling me better be worth all this trouble." She then tossed the remainder of the apple into the garbage can. "So," she sighed and led them back to the couch, "try and surprise me. I doubt it could be worse than—"

"Mike came to visit yesterday."

The mentioning of his name carried Emily into a heated rage. "What? Why? That cocksucker! I hope you didn't let him in. Did you at least kick the shit out of him?"

"No," Matt answered in hopes to silence her shouting. "We talked for a good while, and he said he's sorry for what happened on the mountain—that he wished to make amends. Em' I know you're angry, but can't you just let it go and forgive him?"

"Are you fucking serious right now?" her voice trailed all throughout the house. "That bastard doesn't deserve forgiveness. What he deserves is a bullet in the eye for what he did! How can you be on his side? Do I really mean that little to you?"

"Calm down, Emily. Please, calm down." As she stood, he tried taking her by the hands, but she yanked back as quickly as a snake.

"Don't fucking touch me!" she shouted angrily before storming out the front door.

Matt watched her through the living room window. Wherever she was going, he believed himself obligated to follow her in case she ran into any trouble in the neighborhood. So, after getting dressed and putting on his jacket and football cap, he rushed out the door and broke into a sprint in order to catch her.

"Stop following me!" she shouted. "I don't want to look at you right now!" The thudding of his sneakers made her want to catch fire to his feet so he could never run again.

It didn't take long for him to catch up, and when he did, he grabbed her by the arm, saying, "Damn it, Emily. Just listen to me for once."

Their eyes met beneath the cool sky, the flaps of their jackets breaking in the breeze. A silence came, and a silence passed. Their breaths were shallow and heavy; and their expressions explained just how exhausted they both were. Emily tuned out from what was around her, only seeing Matt's face, hearing him say: "It's okay. Don't worry."

There then came a warmth as she felt him place his arms around her, causing her to sink into him, yearning for more of that warmness. Everything began to blur, everything except him. The rattling in her head slowly vanished, silenced by the beating of his heart; and she brought him in closer when he rested his chin on top of her head. Had he always been so tall? And what was that dripping down her face? Were those tears? She then lightly touched her cheeks. Yes. They were. And it was Matt who began to wipe them away.

"Don't cry," he said soothingly. "Don't cry."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed!**


	7. Chapter 5 Part 2

**Lots to cover.**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 5 Part 2**

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **11:45 am**_

 _ **Ian**_

The autumn temperatures kept the gym pleasantly cool and relaxed. The windows were stained by the markings of the fog outside as Ian sat in his office watching people running on treadmills, lifting weights, sparring in the ring, and so on. Chris had called earlier to inform him that he and Ashley were leaving town for awhile to go and visit his sick grandmother. Without prying too much, Ian responded like any close friend would, respecting Chris' decision, but in his head disliking the fact that he wouldn't see him in the gym for some time—meaning that he'd have to find a temporary workout partner.

There'd also been an update on James' and Cass' relationship. At around ten o'clock Ian picked up his cellphone only to hear a flustered James cursing to the high heavens about some undisclosed argument him and Cass had the night before. All there was to gain from the conversation was learning that their fondness for one another was beginning to dive, which, knowing how James operated, didn't surprise Ian in the slightest. In fact, he was almost relieved by such a turn of events, believing that James might finally wise up and stop acting like a two year old.

Other than those two things, not much was happening. Marcus and his family were coming over for dinner tonight, Trish was steadily working as a waitress and going to school to become a nurse at the nearby hospital . . . and so continued the list of regular events. Although, in the meantime, Ian had developed an interest for poetry—reading Shakespeare was a most enjoyed pastime of his. And once all the proper papers were filed for the day, he tore out a piece of paper from the binder on the shelf beside him, equipped himself with a pencil, and attempted his eagerness to write something inspiring.

 _The autumn gathers before me,_

 _All ripe and imposing;_

 _And maybe I'll find happiness in thee,_

 _If my heart doth quit loathing._

He read over it several times, but was embarrassed to have written something, in his eyes, so messily incoherent. Though haven't all great men questioned themselves? The thought laid heavily upon Ian's mind, and he calculated that even the great Edgar Allan Poe had to have at some point despised his own work. _The worst critic of any piece is the author himself._ It was something he'd read in a book, something he couldn't forget. Under his breath, he spoke calmly to himself, "If I just keep practicing . . ." But was interrupted when a girl barged through the door.

Her features were easily recognized: a crooked nose, lively brown eyes, and silky hair. Ian knew immediately that it was Cass. Though he wished to greet her, he could tell by her expression that she wasn't there to make friendly conversation. Before she even opened her mouth, Ian knew he was about to get an earful about his stubborn brother.

"Cass? What are you doing here?" he asked with pretend curiosity, subtly using one arm to hide the paper on his desk. The girl gave him a long hard look, obviously deciding what words to use. She'd been awfully worked up, and it was blatantly obvious by how she walked and how her face was scrunched up as if she'd smelt something terrible.

"You know exactly why I'm here." She then plopped herself into the chair across from where he sat. "I'm here to talk about that asshole brother of yours." He could feel the rage boiling inside her. "I've been nothin' but slavin' away for that fucker!" she hollered, not knowing where to start. "Washin' his clothes, doin' his dishes, takin' care of 'im, and how does he repay me?"

Ian remained quiet, fearful that her wrath might be directed at him instead.

"He repays me by runnin' off with some dirty slut he picked up off the street! And what makes it even worse is that he tried lying about it. Tellin' me she's just a friend. What a load of shit. How can you stand knowin' you're related to that bastard?"

Shrugging, Ian slowly scooted his chair backwards away from Cass in case she decided to explode right then and there. "Well . . ." he tried. "I just work with what I got. James can be troublesome, true, but he's my brother. I'm sorry about what happened. I don't mean to doubt your resolve, but how do you know he's been seeing someone else?" It was then clear as to what James was talking about on the phone, though Ian remained unsure of the whole situation. Until . . .

"I found them in bed together."

 _Yikes!_ thought Ian, his eyes flushed open. _James . . . fucking moron. No wonder she hates your guts. He won't get away with this. Marcus and I will need to have a serious conversation with him._ Through all her fury and anger, there still lived a hint of sadness and hurt. The rage she was experiencing hadn't formed out of spit and jealousy, no, the fuel to Cass' tirade was a deep feeling of betrayal, and Ian truly felt sorry for her. So much in fact, he openly offered her to come by and have dinner with him and the others.

"It'll just be me, my girlfriend, and my brother's family. Don't worry, I'm not talking about James. His name is Marcus, and I'm sure you'll get along well with everyone." He smiled brightly, hoping to draw out the remaining tenseness that engulfed Cass' body.

"That sounds . . ." She tried smiling, feeling that of a calming warmth illuminating from Ian's welcoming gaze. "That sounds really nice. I'd love to come." Humor was starting to return to her, and before long she was back to laughing and joking again. "As long as James ain't there . . . I'm good for some decent folk and tasty food. Who's doin' the cooking?"

"I am," Ian answered proudly. He'd already planned the entire meal out. Grilled chicken, corn, sweat peas, mash potatoes and gravy, fried okra, and spinach. And for desert would be Trisha's mom's homemade raspberry cobbler. "Here, I'll write down the directions," he said, reaching back to the binder on the shelf. He scribbled down in detail on what roads to take and named a few well-known places nearby. One of them being a restaurant called: The Saucy Barber.

* _The Saucy Barber was an old BBQ joint founded back in 1999. The owners were a sister and brother whose names were Dylan and Janet Osborne. As children, Ian, James, and Marcus would go every Sunday with either their mom or dad after church and order their favorite BBQ sandwich. Since then, the Saucy Barber had acquired the reputation as one of the best BBQ places in_ _town._ *

They talked for another fifteen minutes. One of the questions Ian asked her was: "How did you know where to find me?"

"When me and James first met," she began, recalling previous events, "I asked him what kinda work he did. Told me that he owned the only Planet Fitness in town, sayin' that you helped him out a little." Looking around the room and seeing that James was nowhere to be found, she smirked. "Looks like he lied to me again. You seem like you're the only one runnin' the place."

Ian leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Tell me about it," he replied exhaustively, pulling out the filing cabinet at the bottom of the desk where a large stack of folders was slowly gathering dust. "Do you see all this?" He looked at her with an overwhelmed expression. "He tells me to write down everything that happens. How many people attend each class, who those people are, which employees came in late, which came in early . . . sometimes I just want to tell him to do the shit himself, but no, he's off partying with some of the most despicable people I've ever met." It felt good to finally release the built up emotions he'd carried with him for the last three months. However, the last statement was accidental, and he didn't mean any offense. "Not you, of course," he quickly added before slamming shut the filing cabinet, continuing with: "I only mean _most_ of the people: the drunks, the sluts, and the slobs he associates with. Not saying you're a slut, but eh . . ." He couldn't think of an assuring way to explain what he meant.

Cass didn't appear to care, but instead seemingly enjoyed hearing him carry on without any direction as to what should be spoken next. "It's okay," she reassured, smiling. "I know what you meant." She then glanced up at the clock behind Ian. "I think I oughtta go," she said, standing to her feet. The clock read twenty past twelve. Ian led her to the door and opened it for her.

"Going so soon?" he asked, stepping out of the office. He was tempted to walk her to her car, but believed that it might prove a little awkward. Besides, he wouldn't want any trouble with Trish if she found out. He loved her dearly, but her jealously was often aggravating.

"Yeah, I gotta get home and get ready for work. Oh . . ." She stopped walking for a moment, "Now that I'm thinking about it . . ." and reached into her jeans, greeting his eyes to a red Crimson Tide pen. Ian looked at her dumbfounded.

"You gotta be kidding, right?" He shook his head, but accepted the gift anyways.

"Well," she began to explain, "if you're gonna be writin' all day, might as well do it with your favorite team's pen."

Ian couldn't argue with her logic—if you could even call it that—so, out of the decency and natural friendliness in his heart, he complained not a word about it. He simply waved goodbye and thanked her again for the sweet gesture.

However, there wasn't any friendliness to be found in him once he called James. He'd spent several minutes staring at his phone, pondering of what to say; and every minute that passed only enraged him more and more. He knew his brother was an awful person, but what James did to Cass crossed the line. Even if Ian might not have know her for long, he still felt partially responsible for his brother's actions. _I should've told him . . ._ he thought, not knowing what to think. He then punched in the numbers, took a sip from his mug, and waited patiently for James to pick up.

The first call went to voicemail, and Ian growled beneath his breath as he tried again. And again. And again. "What the fuck, James?" he mumbled to himself. James was a disorganized slob, that Ian knew, but he wasn't a disorganized slob who never answered his phone, which was especially strange since they'd spoken a mere few hours ago. The only possible explanation that Ian could muster was that James must've been so upset about Cass that he decided to drown his sorrows at the bottom of however many bottles he could drink.

But Ian tried calling him again despite it all; and when James still did not answer, Ian tucked his phone into his pocket, took another sip from his mug, and stepped out of his office. Paperwork for the morning was finished, and he was free to do his stretching and light cardio exercises.

He entered the closet in order to find a mat. The air inside was musty and filled with dust that caused Ian to sneeze loudly. He shifted through the old equipment, making his way down the shelves and rows until he found a small hue of blue in the back corner. That blue, he assumed, was the mat he was looking for. He pulled it out and realized it was indeed a mat but not the kind he'd be willing to use, instead it was a relic from his years as a child. The thing was ripped open from one edge to the other, and in its center was a disgusting yellow pee stain. Who made it? Ian couldn't remember; but he was partially thinking it might've been James. Ian knew Marcus wasn't the culprit because he was much too old at the time; and the fact that James always had a weak bladder only solidified the accusation. But not even those pleasant memories could calm the anger Ian held toward his unfaithful brother. In fact, after dragging out a much cleaner mat, he decided then that it would be best to call Marcus about James' behavior as soon as he finished his morning workout.

* * *

When it came to the individual discipline of the three brothers, Marcus and Ian were matched neck and neck. Both found sovereignty following the rules and staying inbound of society's norms. Meanwhile, the third sibling, James, was a free spirited, highly undisciplined character—the kind one would find in a low town bar or strip club. He acted on impulse rather than rational thought. Sex, parties, and alcohol were his life's passions, though alcohol was especially cherished, whereas parties were more of a conventional way of finding someone to have sex with, and sex was a conventional way to go to parties. All in all, James was heading downhill fast, and it was all Ian and Marcus could do to save their brother before it was too late.

* * *

Ian waited until the gym and parking lot were empty to call Marcus. Stepping outside for a couple of minutes, he dialed the number, catching a whiff of the cold autumn air, and waited for his brother to pick up. Ian knew the chances of Marcus not picking up were very unlikely.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Marcus, it's me. How are things?" Ian paused to look off into the misty horizon. A chilly wind swept across his face, and he shivered.

"You know—same old, same old," his brother's voice was calm, and Ian assumed that he was indoors somewhere. "You called at just the right time. We're still coming over tonight, right? Madison's so excited to see her Uncle Ian."

"She's always excited to see me," Ian joked, smiling to himself as he stood there on the curb. "I'm thinking about buying her a stuffed animal or something from Walmart. Doesn't she like pandas?"

"Madison loves pandas," Marcus replied. The girl was indeed a graceful creature if there ever was one. Her little face and smile showed a great deal of wonder and merriment. She had big blue eyes that were the exact replicas of her father's; glowing inside them was every curiosity befitted to that of a child. The brown curls atop her head were long and beautiful; and her plumps arms gave for the best hugs.

Joy and delight were most abundant in Marcus' household. The wife, whose name was Janice, was beautiful in her own right and looked so much like Maddie. Ian knew her well, almost as well as Marcus. The reason as to this was because, if it wasn't for Ian, her and Marcus would've never met. The story was a rather simple one: shy boy falls in love with shy girl, boy's brother helps him by talking to her, they meet, they kiss, and they become inseparable. It was a love founded in childhood and eventually matured into adulthood—love such as this was among the strongest to be had. It was the kind of pureness that Ian wished he and Trish had.

Their love was of the more common variety. A love found through opportunity. A love that wasn't of the same cloth as a childish love or a developed love. It was comprised of events that led them to agree on the terms of liking each other's company. It felt to Ian as if it was a contract. It hadn't the depth of Marcus' and Janice's love, neither did it have the innocence of what used to be James' and Cass' love. Ian never spoke to Trisha about his thoughts on the matter. In his mind, he knew that they were meant to be together, but, somewhere in the recess of his heart, he suffered greatly from one of the worst kind of demons: unfulfillment.

Unfulfillment is a common ailment to young men searching for purpose. Like the void, unfulfillment can leave a person empty and cold. For if there is so much to be desired, then not being able to seize every piece can leave you disassembled. And talking on the phone with Marcus about Janice and Madison only highlighted what Ian wished he had. So much so, that he nearly forgot the reason he called in the first place.

"There's something I need to tell you about James," Ian said after all familiarities were over and done with; and he realized himself to be very hesitant. Marcus despised cheaters. Hated them. And it could all be related back to how much he loved Janice, being simply unable to stomach the thought of ever cheating on her with another woman; and so, to see other men do it to their wives and girlfriends only fed into him like wood in a fire. "I need to know that you won't flip out when I tell you."

"I won't," promised Marcus, obviously intrigued by what his brother had to say. "It can't be that bad. We're both used to James fucking up. It's nothing new."

 _You say that now . . ._ Ian thought as he prepared his next couple of sentences carefully. "He and Cass, well, they got into a pretty bad argument. I talked to James this morning when he called me. He was shouting and screaming, cursing every other word—it wasn't something fun to listen to . . ." Realizing he was starting to get off track, Ian allowed Marcus to respond.

"That sounds like James. I keep telling him he can't win an argument against a woman, doesn't matter how stubborn he is. Did they throw punches? What caused it?"

"He, ugh . . . she—" Ian breathed out so the blush on his face would go away. "A few hours after I talked to him, Cass showed up at my office. She pretty much barged in, completely pissed. We talked for a good while, and she explained everything." He decided then to word himself in a way that would have the least amount of impact, but lost it near the end due to his own anger. "James has done a lot of shit, but I don't think anything tops this . . ." A pause. "Hate to tell it, but our brother's a fucking unfaithful, cheating bastard. She came to visit him after work and found him banging some red head who, hilariously, according to Cass, was thrown out of the house completely naked by the hair." Ian chuckled in hopes to lighten the situation. "I've always said that those southern pines aren't to be fucked with. She got him back good though, slapped him clear across the face before storming out."

"Huh . . ." Marcus took a moment to himself for reflection. After processing the information, all he could really do was sigh. Ian felt relieved when his elder brother said: "I knew something like this was bound to happen. Knew it the first day he called me about her. Damn it, James . . ." The hurt in his voice was real. Thoughts of Janice quickly entered his mind; he couldn't bear imagining her broken expression if he was ever caught with another woman, and what that would do to Madison. "Is there anything else?" he mustered, but his focus to the conversation never fully recovered.

"Yeah, one more thing. I hope you don't mind, but Cass will be having dinner with us tonight. I think it'll do her some good, and maybe we can show her that not everyone in our family is like James. I'd hate for someone to put me in the same category as him." It was around this time that Ian returned inside. "I still haven't decided what we're going to do with him. We can't let him get away with this. But the question is: what do we do?" He waited for Marcus to answer, but when he didn't, Ian asked: "Any ideas, Marcus?" He then entered the office and sat down. The poem he'd been working on remained unfinished on the desk. Not wishing to look at it any longer, he crumbled it up and threw it in the trashcan next to him.

"I got a few." In that Marcus sounded like he was trying to be mischievous—a trait hardly ever describing his tone of voice; however, he sounded completely different, like he'd changed his mind in an instant, when he continued with: "But I think think the best we can do is have a serious talk with him . . ." His sentence ended, but Ian knew he was about to say something else, and so he kept quiet to let his brother think. "There's not really much we can do beyond that. He's a grown man; it's not like we can put him in time out."

"You're right," Ian replied. It was then that they came to a decision, planning their talk with James for tomorrow afternoon, with, of course, the possibility of Cass going with them—only if she wanted to. Once the exact time was made, Ian closed the conversation with: "See you guys tonight. Also, Trish is bringing a pan full of raspberry cobbler."

"That sounds delicious," Marcus said. "I've never had raspberry cobbler before . . ." He broke off his rambling immediately so they could hang up and get back to what it was they were doing. "See you and Trish tonight, Ian. Love you."

Ian frowned. "I hate it when you say that."

"What's wrong? I'm just saying love you to my little baby brother." Marcus had to contain his laughter due to being inside. Ian could actually hear other people talking in the background. "Anyways, I gotta go now. Bye."

"Bye," Ian answered with a pause, mumbling the word, "Asshole," once Marcus disconnected from the call. Afterwards, he made his way to the locker room. His blue bag sat all alone on the wooden bench in the far corner nearest to the showers. Inside that bag was his deodorant, body and hair wash, and extra clothes. It was going on two o'clock, and all he had left to do was hit the weights. The afternoon crowd was bound to come pouring in within the next thirty minutes, so he needed to finish as much as he could before the swarm arrived.

* * *

 _ **November 18th 2016**_

 _ **1:45 pm**_

 _ **Chris**_

The drive to his grandmother was a long one, about five hours to be exact. They'd left a little bit before ten, having packed clothes, food, and Ashley's laptop. Basically, the plan was the following: rent a hotel near the hospital for the week, visit Chris' other family members who also lived in the area (two cousins), and, of course, spend some time with his grandmother, who, point in fact, was in critical condition after suffering from a sudden stroke two days ago. She was currently staying at the Mount Caramel Emergency Room.

During the ride there, Ashley could easily tell that the journey was beginning to tear at Chris' stamina. Droopy eyes, long, slow breaths, decreased reflexes . . . at some point she felt tempted to ask him if she should drive instead. The expressway was extremely busy, dozens of cars were laid out behind and in front of them, and the thought of Chris accidentally driving off the road was a constant fear. But, putting as much faith as she could in her boyfriend's ability, Ashley spoke not a word about it, instead she continued to manage the directions that were written on a slip of paper.

"Okay . . ." she began, looking at the signs they passed. "It says we need to take the next exit in about ten miles. We just passed exit twenty two, right?" In the background music was playing from the stereo: 103.7 Chuck FM. Ashley turned it off for the few brief seconds it took Chris to glance at her and reply:

"Yeah." It was said with some hostility, and Ashley could see his brows darken his face. "You're the one with the directions," he scolded. "Pay attention." And he returned himself to the highway, leaving Ashley to fend for herself against the irritation she'd brought out.

"Sorry," she whispered quietly so Chris wouldn't hear. An embarrassed blush then ran to her cheeks, setting them alight with red fire, and as she looked once more at the directions, she leaned her head against the window, closing her eyes slowly as Chris reached over and turned the radio back on. The song playing happened to be one of her favorites. "Wonderwall," by Oasis. Listening to it brought a small smile to her lips, and within seconds she was tapping her foot and humming along, thinking solely about the man sitting beside her. She knew that Chris' agitated state hadn't anything to do with her, but with the trip itself. The more he drove, the more she noticed his tired habits at the wheel: forgetting to put on his blinkers, not checking his mirrors, and many other worrisome trials. Again, the temptation came that she wanted to ask him to let her drive, but, similar to last time, decided it best not to, telling herself: "He's probably worked up because of his grandmother. But he can't let grief distract him from what it is he needs to do . . ." Thoughts similar to these endlessly popped into her head, causing her to finally say: "Chris," she touched his arm, "you know you can talk to me about anything. I'm here for you. Always." The sharp look he gave her bothered her not the slightest—she'd grown used to such looks; in fact, it only made her smile even more, for then came the confirmation of her theory as to what was wrong with him; and all of it was revealed through that single hard glare.

"There's nothing to talk about," he said coldly. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me, Ash." He softened immediately when he felt her trace over his shoulder with her fingernail. "You know I'm not angry at you. It's this fucking—"

"I know. I know," she spoke lovingly, bringing him beneath her spell, carefully reaching from her seat and kissing him on the cheek. They gazed at one another with warm smiles, sharing in the compassion that only two closely bonded could share, and in that sweet moment of bliss, they discovered solace in each other.

* * *

Another hour dragged by, and Ashley's legs began to ache. She tried stretching them, cupping a hand over her mouth as she yawned, but found little room for maneuvering buckled inside the passenger seat. So, it was with great annoyance that she rolled down her window in hopes of the fresh air returning to her her good spirits; and it did exactly that. For the next half hour she rested with her arm hanging freely out the window. At first, she thought little about the moist wind breaking against her skin, believing it to be a simple description of autumn; but it wasn't soon after that little drops of rain started falling from the sky as the world progressed from light to dark.

Immediately after feeling the first droplet hit her face, Ashley tucked her arm back inside the vehicle and quickly rolled up the window. Chris appeared not to be bothered whatsoever from the changing weather. Actually, when given a closer inspection to his reaction, he appeared to be almost happy, made obvious by the small smirk formed across his otherwise stern features.

"Is something funny?" Ashley asked. The longer the pause between them lasted, the more she began to notice the humor subtly spanning from his brows to the tip of his chin. A charming aura resonated from him, and she couldn't help but be drawn toward it no matter her suspicions.

Chris then smiled brightly—as bright as the sun that once dwelt in the sky—yet never looked at Ashley, even though he wanted to; but he wasn't willing to chance taking his eyes off the road during the heavy downpour that now surrounded them and the car. Every one hundred yards or so, he'd flinch when he felt the tires splurge through a muddy sinkhole, splattering the dirty water on the sides and windows of his Toyota, irritating him more than Ashley ever could at that present moment, and knowing this only made his out of place mood even more bizarre.

Her question went unanswered for nearly a full minute, during which Ashley successively came up with two more in the back of her head. "Why are you acting like a weirdo?" and: "Are you okay?" She was caught by Chris' reply as she was preparing to ask the latter.

"I was just thinking . . ." he began, after finally deciding to adjust the rear view mirror so he could see the confused expression she was giving him. "Do you remember that day me, you, and Ian went to the park, and it started raining?" He apparently remembered it quite well.

"I'm not sure," she replied honestly. "Remind me." Her eyes never wandered off of him, locked in by the crevices detailing his face, as his smile faded.

"Really?" he asked with raised brows. "You don't remember?" The character in his voice was much more alive than the expressionless movements of his lip; and he spent the next minute searching through his memories, trying his damnedest to remember the exact day and month. "I think it was late September," not entirely sure, he added: "maybe early October," and then delved into the details of what happened. "You'd been bugging me the whole week about us going on a romantic picnic, and joked about how me and Ian were spending too much time together, that we were gay lovers or something . . ."

It was at that moment that Ashley remembered.

* * *

She remembered getting all dressed up in a black autumn gown, with bracelets, sneakers, and a leather jacket. She remembered how handsome Chris had looked when he stepped out of their room with his shaved head hidden beneath a classy flat cap, his hands warmly secured in a pair of thin leather gloves, dark blue jeans, shoes, and a masterfully knitted sweater (a gift that Ashley had made for him) all bundled inside an appropriately warm, black topcoat.

His towering figure gazed down upon her as if she was a child; his shoulders were wide and perfectly proportioned with his muscular arms; he would've been intimating if it wasn't for her knowing how squishy he really was on the inside. And in her moment of admiring his impressive form, he tenderly offered her his arm the way a gentleman in a movie would.

"I have a surprise for you," he had said in a quiet voice on their way out the door.

"What is it?" she asked, taking the picnic basket from the counter into her free hand. Her heart fluttered, and she leaned on him, but was stopped in her tracks when she saw a certain someone standing at the railing, smiling at them once they stepped outside.

The man was smaller than Chris in both height and width; however, his posture spoke boastfully, as if trying to make you forget about its tininess. His narrow eyes were dripping with excitement; his red lips were thin and curled into a smile that Ashley knew only one man possessed: Ian.

"Good afternoon, milady," he teased, his mouth parting as he tried to retain his laughter. He was wearing the clothes of an intellectual: a classy jacket that he'd left unbuttoned, revealing a plain black shirt and woolen scarf wrapped snugly around his neck; his dark hair was trimmed short, aligned a few inches above his thick eyebrows; and his white teeth shined like crystals beneath the dying sun. "Are we ready to go?"

Ashley couldn't deny Ian's handsome appearance, but even that wasn't enough to keep her from slapping Chris' arm. "What's he doing here?" she wanted to scream, but it came out slightly louder than a whisper.

"I invited him to our picnic," Chris replied. "I thought you wouldn't mind."

As the couple started to argue, Ian headed down the steps into the parking lot. "I'll just wait in the car," he said, but they were too lost in their bickering to hear him. Making his way there, he listened to Ashley's voice growing louder as Chris desperately tried to calm her. The whole situation was humorous, and once everyone had finally calmed down, Chris drove them to the park.

Ian sat alone in the backseat the entire time, while Ashley sat sulking in the passenger side. He'd glance at her every couple of minutes, and from where he was in the car, he could easily make out the frown on her face, which he knew wouldn't leave unless he jumped out the car door and banged his head on some telephone pole or road sign—Ian funnily thought a "Stop" sign would've been quite poetically fitting.

Other than the radio, everything was silent for the majority of the ride. Ian attempted multiple times to start a conversation with either of them, but Chris was too worried that saying something would set Ashley off, and Ashley was too annoyed with Chris about Ian that she didn't even acknowledge his existence, as if a giant glass window was built to separate the front half and back half of the Toyota. Ian looked to Chris to speak up against Ashley's rudeness, and shook his head disapprovingly when his friend didn't. _Whatever . . ._ he thought, hanging his head in defeat, and then resting it on the window.

By this time, the sky had folded into itself. The once white rings of clouds had dissipated, and were replaced by foreboding gray ones echoing with thunder and flashing with yellow streaks of lightning. And as soon as they passed the park's gate entrance, it began to rain.

Ashley cursed, and Chris laughed as they all three sat in his car perturbed by the storm. Looking outside the window, Ian saw mothers running to their vehicles with their children securely in their arms, and smiled to himself when he saw a father carrying his two sons like footballs tucked beneath his armpits.

"Everything's ruined!" Ashley groaned, immediately glaring at Ian who remained absorbed in watching the father fumbling around with his sons. She then glared at Chris, and said, "Damn it, Chris. This was supposed to be a nice evening for us." Crossing her arms childishly, she sunk into her seat, refusing to look at either man.

It wasn't until the father and his sons drove away did Ian return to the conversation. "Why don't we just have a picnic in the rain?" The idea sounded foolproof to him, and he smirked when he saw Chris nod in agreement.

"What do you say, Ash?" he asked his girlfriend. He then reached into the basket in the floorboard. "Lemme see what you brought . . ." He counted apples, grapes, salads, a can of mixed nuts, and a few other items, none of which would be spoiled by the rain. He came up from it with a smile. "Yeah, it's perfect. No sandwiches, so we don't have to worry about the bread getting mushy . . . we—"

"Chris, listen to me," she interrupted, her eyes read like a serious script. "I don't want to eat in the rain." Each syllable was pronounced clearly and with force.

"Oh, come on, Ash," Ian chimed in lightly. "Don't be a stick in the mud."

Upon hearing him call her by that nickname, Ashley shot Ian the nastiest snarl she could. "Okay, first," she seethed, "you might be friends with Chris, but that does not make you buddy-buddy with me. I don't need you here, and I don't want you here. This was supposed to be only me and Chris. The last thing I want is some lapdog coming with us on our date, which, by the way," she turned to Chris, "is completely ruined by this fucking storm!"

"Sheesh . . ." Ian blushed, and half expected Chris to stand up for him, but wasn't really upset when he tried comforting Ashley instead. Honestly, Ian understood her reason for being so crossed with him; and a hard wave of guilt began to etch its way inside.

But through all the craziness, somehow, according to Chris as he retold the story of that night, they'd finally managed to get Ashley to agree to their terms of eating out in the rain, and, just like they promised, they all three had an amazing time. During the midst of their laughter, Ashley asked Ian to forgive her, saying that she was sorry for being hateful. And, of course, without hesitation, he forgave her, telling her that she had every right to her anger.

* * *

So, returning to the present, why was it that Chris decided to recall such a tale? Well, as he later explained to Ashley, it was to remember a time of peace and gladness, and to also explain his out of place smile and sudden change in mood. Such memories were hard to come by, and it was not only reassuring for himself to tell it, but also for Ashley to listen.

"How is Ian by the way?" she asked, as soon as Chris finished the story. It'd been several weeks since Ashley saw him last; and because Ian only called Chris' phone—and because Chris rarely talked about him—his life remained an utter mystery to her. She, however, did remember hearing about a woman by the name of Trisha during one of their last meetings—a woman, whenever mentioned, caused Ian great delight, surrendering the tone of one in love to his voice. He spoke not one negative word about her, and tried his best to describe her beauty, who she was as a person, and how they'd come to know each other. Nothing particularly interesting, but Ashley listened anyways, more intently than she meant to.

"I called him before we left." Chris wasn't aware that Ashley had lost herself in her own thoughts, and very plainly said: "He told me he's going to beat my ass for ditching him again." He chuckled as he thought about the many nights ago when Josh was arrested for fighting, and how irritated Ian must've been when he left without an explanation. "I told that asshole he can sure as hell try . . ." He paused the moment he realized Ashley wasn't paying attention. "Something on your mind?" he asked, curious, and slightly worried by the contemplative expression that had recently cast itself over her green eyes.

For a moment, she looked at him and appeared lost. He could tell she wanted to say something, but was obviously too shy to speak. Hoping to comfort her, he rested his right hand on top of hers, but he couldn't allow himself to be distracted by her beauty, so he never gave her a deserving glance, and he kept his left hand firmly on the wheel. And for some time, they kept their positions, muttering only a few words here and there, usually about what song was playing on the radio.

The silence wasn't officially broken until they pulled into a gas station right as the rain stopped. All previous grievances had been resolved by themselves, and as Chris got out of the car, he heard Ashley say: "I'd like a water, please."

"Anything else?" he asked, preparing to shut the door; and did so immediately when she explained that she only wanted the water. They were parked beside pump number five, with the gas needle in the Toyota being pinned on empty. And it wasn't until he was inside that he finally decided how much he was going to put in. Considering all factors, the remaining distance of the trip itself, how far the next gas station was, the next town, etc, etc., he gave the pretty brunette at the cash register a one hundred dollar bill, along with another dollar for the bottle of water he carried in his hand.

"Thank you," she said, smiling. He noticed that her name tag had Ashley written on it, and, for only a brief second, thought about joking about such a coincidence, but ultimately saw it as a bad idea, since he couldn't come up with anything witty enough to keep from embarrassing himself. Without much courtesy, he rushed out the door, tossed Ashley her bottle from the open window, and pulled the nozzle out from the station. After making sure the gas setting was on regular, and after checking to make sure the car was turned off, only then did he began to fill it.

The effects of the long drive could be felt as he stood there gripping the handle. He watched as the numbers on the pump's electronic screen added up to ten dollars, twenty five dollars, etc. Yet despite his attempts to distract himself on such figures, he couldn't seem to get rid of the awful throbbing that occurred a few inches above his lower back. Sighing deeply, he leaned up against the Toyota, and, thankfully, it helped somewhat ease the burden, though not completely; he still remained rigid, and it was all he could do to bend down and return the nozzle back inside the station's left slot.

Once finished, he sat back down beside Ashley and discovered her taking tiny sips from the water he'd bought her. He supposed the cold freshness of the liquid was the only thing keeping her awake; according to the black spots beneath her eyelids, she was barely holding on to consciousness. And then, only for a moment, a fleeting thought about the waters of life skimmed across the edges of his tired mind, informing him of some hardly understood connection between the water in a bottle and the water of fabled lore. It made little sense, and it began to distress him, so he quickly replaced the bad thoughts with welcoming ones, such as: how beautiful Ashley looked, and that they were almost at their destination, meaning they weren't far from a nice hotel and a nice bed—two creations of society that are often overlooked, unless, that is, they are needed; and I believe it is important that I expound upon this statement with the following:

A rich man will often discover that his high sense of taste matters little when he is truly tired and hungry. Even the most broken down, revolting hotels can look appealing after a strenuous day; and even the nastiest food can appear appetizing to a growling stomach. Of course, the rich man can often afford a more expensive room and better quality food; but, in the back of his mind, he knows that if anything were to happen to his preferred choices, that he would, without a doubt, settle for even the worst of conditions—as long as those conditions came with food and a roof over his head. And if the rich man were to lose all his money and belongings during the night of a cold winter, and be thrown from his mansion out onto the snowy streets, wearing nothing except an old jacket to keep warm, we'd be sure to see him crawl to the nearest trash fire, and from there scrounge up all the money he could, and _if_ his earnings were sufficient, rent the cheapest room from the cheapest hotel in town. Further concluding that we take what we have for granted, even something as simple as owning a bed or renting a hotel for the night. And underneath all the fashions and materials of the world, there lies within us a savagery, a brutal truth, that, no matter who you are, people will do whatever it takes to survive; and if that means living in a gutter, then so be it.

* * *

It was a quarter past two by the time they arrived at their hotel. The parking lot was desolate—four cars at most—so Chris easily managed to find a parking space close to the front door. After taking the keys out of the ignition, he turned to Ashley, who dwelt in her own little world, and said: "Go ahead and start getting the stuff out of the trunk. I'll go and get us a room." He then exited his vehicle and hurried across the sidewalk. The Candled Suites was what the colorful sign read outside, and if the reviews on their website were anything to go by, it was the best deal available in the old shanty town of Andersdale; and once he was inside, Chris realized it to be true.

The lobby offered people all the fancies they wished were theirs: gorgeous, expensive furniture, ornate rugs, silver vases, a golden chandler with over thirty scented candles, a seventy inch flat screen television, and one equally fitted dining room where breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served daily. It was so unlike the rest of the town that Chris believed everything to be a figment of his imagination; and as he approached the counter with stars in his eyes, he was brought back to reality by the single friendly face there to greet him.

"Welcome, sir," said the handsome man. He was black haired and bearded. The nice suit he wore was the perfect frame for his masculine figure, and he stood with a dignified expression—a sternness custom to men of high society. His blue eyes expressed both patience and understanding, while the wrinkles and crevices on his forehead explained his age and experience. "Will you be staying with us tonight or this week?" Even with a face so charismatic and interesting, the man's voice sounded oddly robotic and insincere, and his lips moved as if they were controlled by a remote.

Chris halted any further observations regarding the stranger, and after matching the man's smile with his own—both which were fake—he explained that he would be needing a room for two with all the accommodations available (room service, free WiFi, permission to use the indoor hot-tub, and so on.) He then continued by saying: "We'll just be staying five days." And once he handed over his money, and was given the key to room number 125, Chris returned outside and discovered that Ashley had placed all their belongings in a cart.

"I hope we got a room," she said. "I'd hate to have to put all this stuff back." Sipping on what remained of her water bottle, Ashley smiled when she saw the key in his hand. "I hope it's nice," she said, slightly confused by the sudden mischievous expression on Chris' face.

"It's okay, I guess," he lied. "Nothing special."

* * *

There were only a few times that he'd ever lied to Ashley since they'd been together: the first time was a much more serious situation, and it occurred a year or so after the night on Blackwood Mountain. Chris had by that time signed on to join the Marine Corps; and one night he came home late after meeting with his recruiter for the second time that week. Ashley had been sitting on the couch, her phone clutched in her hands, waiting anxiously for him to walk through the door. What had originally been a small case of worry quickly turned into total terror. Every sound she heard outside struck her as if someone was trying to break in. Cold sweats hungrily ate away at her cheeks, and she remained as quiet as possible, hoping that whoever was there would go away.

Reality distortions are common factors to be included when speaking about someone who has gone through extremely traumatic events. And there are few events that compare to the utter fear to be found during that fateful night on the mountain. Images so grotesque that those afflicted by them never fully recovered; there lived a never ending nightmare inside the deepest entanglements of their minds, so severe that they were locked away to never be rediscovered. And if those horrible memories were allowed to seep out, then the results would be catastrophic.

And upon Chris' arrival, all the panic and discourse that controlled Ashley's mind lashed out by the way of a heated frenzy. "Why are you late?" she demanded. "I've been trying to call you for the past hour!" She waved her fist angrily in the air and struck his shoulder. "Chris, answer me, you son of a bitch! Where were you?"

"I was . . ." he tried answering, but was too shocked by Ashley's state of mind to say more than a few words. It wasn't until he noticed her stumbling did he take her by the hands, pressed them softly between his thumbs, and led her to the bedroom. Obviously, she was exhausted, and so he laid her down and covered her up, kissing her forehead. As he sat at her side, he continuously spoke encouraging words, and, eventually, her breathing finally returned to normal. Before everything unfolded, he'd left the recruiter's office and thought about breaking the news to Ashley that night; but the idea was instantly distinguished as he sat there, speechless, glaring hard at her sickly pale skin.

"I'm sorry," Ashley whispered weakly. "I didn't mean anything I said." Her voice only grew weaker, and her skin grew paler. The poor creature's head was burning up, so Chris ran to the bathroom and returned with a wet towel. He then laid it over her and softly wiped away the drops of sweat.

"It's okay," he said sweetly. "Don't be scared. I'm here." Smiling, he kissed her lips. "Everything will be okay, you'll see." Though he sounded sure, in reality, Chris was frightened just as much as Ashley about their future. It was then he told his first lie: "I'll never leave you. I promise." And he held her silent body in his arms.

What happened that night was never forgotten; however, the two individuals involved remembered it differently. Chris remembered it as it happened before him, whereas Ashley remembered it as innermost struggle between sanity and insanity. I, on the other, have the knowledge of both perspectives; and all I can say is that two people will always see, hear, and feel things differently. A simple explanation, I know, but an accurate one.

* * *

On our return to the present, I feel it is important that we discuss the events that have happened thus far within the narrative. Many of the details and conversations have been provided to me through multiple sources; and so I'm positive of my accuracy per which when and how the events occurred. I will start with an in depth study between Joshua Washington and his therapist Dr. Eddington; but, in order for us to come to a complete understanding of the two sirs, I must inform and discuss a few key points explaining Dr. Elijah Eddington's upbringing.

Firstly, we must note that he was born in 1954 on a Sunday during January to two parents. His mother's name was Clarice Eddington, and his father, Steve Eddington, was a well known man among the townies—word got out that he was closely affiliated with the mayor, though it was never discovered how closely. They lived in a two story house in the center of town (the town's name is not important since it no longer exists.) Not far from where they lived was the elementary school, and beyond that were the middle and high schools—another important note is that Elijah never attended them, for he was home schooled by his mother.

As a child, Elijah spent many of his days inside libraries and bookstores, always looking for that perfect book—a book that surpassed all others. And it was his passion for the search that led him to the celebration of every new book discovery. However, it wasn't until much later, at the age of sixteen, did he gain an interest in psychology; and it was all credited to a hardly known writer who wrote the equally unknown book: _The Many Shattered Minds._ (Yes, the book not only inspired Eddington, but this very narrative itself.) It had such an effect on Elijah that he begged his parents to let him attend prestigious universities so he could fulfill his truest dream: to write a bestselling novel on psychology.

* * *

Thus, bringing us to 2014: the year that his book _Surviving the Grief_ was published. At long last, after many years of dedication and hard work, he had finally accomplished his dream. And that leads us to two years later, the first time he laid his eyes on the self-proclaimed Joshua Washington.

It was an interesting meeting to say the least—two different personalities clashed together often produce such instances. And it couldn't have been more obvious than by the goofy, almost dimwitted, smile that Eddington caught Josh wearing every time he glanced up from his notes. Everything about the young man's appearance appeared contrived and impersonal; it was as if Josh himself was not human, but a Yes-Man and No-Man—for every question Eddington asked him, he answered in the same lifeless manner. However, the conversation took a twist when Josh asked an unexpected question.

"Why do you have so many copies of the same book?" He pointed directly behind Eddington at the dozens of glossy hardcovers lined up on three shelves. The print beneath the title was too small to read from a distance, so Josh was unaware of the author.

Eddington spun around in his chair, excited to explain his masterpiece. "When I was a young boy," he began, settling in for the story he was about to tell, "I had an unquenchable thirst for literature." He then turned back around in his chair and faced Josh who, for the most part, remained quiet throughout. "I remember my parents taking me to the bookstore every Saturday where I'd spend my allowance on whatever book was popular at the time. Of course, I enjoyed the classics. I had a particular fascination for Russian literature. I read many pieces from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky . . . you could say that I was highly devoted to reading anything I could get my hands on. And let me tell you that throughout the years, I have gathered an imposingly large collection of stories written from all walks of life. So many, in fact, that I have yet to read them all."

"That's all very interesting, doc." Josh displayed ultimate boredom. "But how exactly does that answer my question?"

"Well, if you'd let me finish . . ." coughed Eddington angrily, detesting the rude comment to the point that the entire tone in which the story was told changed. "By my sixteenth birthday, I had become quite interested in psychology. I read and I read to my hearts content, learning about the mind, learning the personalities of different people . . . I spent so much time in my study that I often forgot to socialize, which, at the time, seemed not all that important." He paused and took a sip from his coffee cup. "I couldn't have been more mistaken. Socializing is the key to learning what it is people strive for, their needs, their wants. Indeed, I believe that experiencing the world is the very foundation which a psychologist builds upon. As I've told many of my patients: 'learning the ways of the world is a critical stepping stone towards your success.' What good is a man if he doesn't put his knowledge to use? And what good would I be to the world if I never left the comfort of my home? Let's say I knew all there was to know about psychology, how does simply knowing about it help anyone? Again, you must reveal your knowledge to the world, teach those who ask to be taught, build great things—build your empire. And never . . ." Eddington was so caught up in his story that he hadn't notice that he'd talked for the entire hour until Josh said:

"Sorry, doc, but we're out of time." He stood and held out his hand. After listening to Eddington's personal life and history, Josh felt it only right that he thank the man for his efforts. "It was a great story," he said excitedly, but you could see in his eyes that he was happy it was over. "Will you finish it the next time we meet?"

Eddington nodded his head and shook hands with his patient. "Of course, it'd be my pleasure. How about next week on Tuesday?"

"Just say the word, Mr. PhD," was the last thing Josh said as he opened the door and stepped out into the waiting room where a handful of people sat silently in their chairs. He passed by without looking at them; they were all old and smelt worse than sour milk.

At the end of the day, Elijah sorted his written notes inside the cluttered folder on his desk. It was the same folder that held every ounce of information about his patients. The crudeness of only having one folder was something that Eddington never understood; he'd been told multiple times by multiple associates to have a separate file for each patient; but Eddington continued to resist their demands, coming nowhere close to figuring that he was an utter slob—even more exposed was this blunder by all the junk he stuffed in his office's closet.

The next several months followed with the formation of a surprising friendship; though Josh would never admit it, he enjoyed the time he spent with Dr. Eddington; and Dr. Eddington enjoyed the time he spent with Josh. There's no doubt that they were different people with different beliefs and philosophies, however, despite that, they shared many similarities—more than what they realized for themselves. Like many others, they loved their families and friends; they were both arrogant in their own ways; and honesty was a major driving force whenever they considered which path to take: traits that were common among many different people, including myself.

* * *

It wasn't until recently that Josh had received the surprising message from Sam. At first, he was unsure whether or not she was being sincere with her attempts to reconnect. He and his mother entrusted such thoughts to little conversations spread throughout the day, each time discussing the texts Josh had received. Melinda encouraged her son in every possible way to the point that it became a nuisance, and Josh heatedly asked her to leave him alone.

We now move to the day Josh and Sam went to Callbe's Skating Rink. Truthfully, Sam wasn't sure how it would go. Even during their childhood, Josh had always been unpredictable; and in the back of her mind, just as they were beginning to have fun, she felt that something horrible was boiling beneath the surface; but not even all the suspicion in the world prepared her for what came next.

Josh must've punched the boy at least ten times, breaking his nose and splattering blood onto the floor. It was then Sam realized just how untamed and wild he really was. And in that moment, she contemplated running away from the scene entirely; however, such thoughts ended when she witnessed Josh being pinned to a table by some muscular black man. Out of pure instinct, she rushed to them and begged the big man to lighten up on her friend.

"Sorry," he said in a gruff voice, "but I can't do that. He's a danger to everybody here. Ain't you seen what he did to that young boy?" He then looked around with his beady eyes for someone with a cellphone, shouting repeatedly: "Someone call an ambulance!"

The cops arrived five minutes after the incident, and Josh was arrested. Sam, still unsure what to do, ran outside and called Melinda. "Come on," she mumbled, dialing the numbers, "please, pick up."

"Hello?" Melinda's tone made it clear that she wasn't expecting a call so soon; however, after listening to Sam's heavy breathing, she asked: "What's wrong? Are you and Josh okay?"

"We were skating, and we—he . . . " she tried explaining as fast as she could, but lost all her coherence in the process. Melinda was about to say something, but Sam cut her off. "The police came and arrested him! We need to hurry. Should we meet somewhere? I . . ." And so continued the conversation until it was concluded that they would meet at the courthouse.

Meanwhile, Josh spent most of his night sitting on the world's most uncomfortable bed inside the world's coldest prison; and (like I explained in Chapter 2) learned quite a bit about his cellmate, a man named Roger Elliot, who helped him discover, that despite all the evils in his life, he had to be the one to carry on, and if not for himself, at least for his family and friends.

* * *

So, it's essential that I now divert attention over to Elliot because, if we are to understand him, then his story must be told. And I will start off by posing the question—the same question that everyone whoever came in contact with him asked themselves: just who exactly was Roger Elliot? He was a freethinker, a lover not a fighter; he loved his wife and daughter unconditionally—all in all, he was a good man with a stable head on his shoulders. But that's only the surface of who he was. There dwelled within him something much more complex than simply a large, blond-headed man who wore leather jackets and worked construction. And discovering such depth would be like looking for a diamond in the rough.

 _To be continued in Part 3 , , ,_

* * *

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


	8. Chapter 5 Part 3

**A/N: Sorry for the late update. I needed a little break, but I'm back to it now!**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 5 Part 3**

I met Roger nearly eight years ago. He was already married by then to my cousin Lydia Joyce—whose last name was changed to Elliot on account of their wedding. Marybeth wasn't quite yet born; but I do remember how excited my family was to hear that one of our relatives was pregnant. I never attended any of her baby showers, but my sister did, and you better believe I was given all the details.

The most I ever heard about Roger was that he was a very kind man, though the pictures of him covered in tattoos spoke a different narrative. You could say that I was reluctant upon meeting him. I hadn't attended their wedding, and, for the most part, hadn't kept in contact with any of my family other than my sister; so, it made the initial meeting rather awkward.

I drove up to their driveway in an old Chevy pickup and was met at the door by Roger himself. They lived in small trailer outside of town and spent most of their time working. Lydia worked as a substitute teacher, and Roger had a rough time with construction, which was easy to tell by his tired expression as we stood there on the porch.

He held out his hand. "It's nice meetin' ya," he said in a low husk. "Lydia's been goin' on and on about you all day—thought I'd come greet you myself."

"The pleasure's mine," I replied as I firmly shook his hand. Honestly, I was surprised to meet such a well collected, softly spoken man. He was truly the tale of never judge a book by its cover, and he continued to surprise me as our conversation carried into the living room.

Lydia was seated on the couch beside Elliot while I sat down in the chair across from them. The radio played quietly in the background, and I found myself pleasantly relaxed.

We talked for quite some time about many topics from elaborate to something as simple as the weather. But it wasn't until the topic of Lydia's pregnancy that I realized what kind of man Roger Elliot truly was. And all of it could be redirected toward the answer he gave me when I asked: "Are you sure you're ready for such an important responsibility?"

At first Roger seemed offended, and I felt a sudden pinch in my gut telling me it was the wrong question; but as the question slowly resonated with him, he began smiling. "Not somethin' I can easily answer," he said, gently taking his wife's hand, "but I think with time and some understanding, we can raise our daughter like the good Lord wants us. What do you think, darling? Do you think we're ready?"

Lydia smiled softly. "I _know_ we're ready. Everything we have will be put into raising our child." She then traced a finger across her swollen stomach with a look of patience and compassion. It was a beautiful sight, and I couldn't help but be moved.

The next hour moved by quickly. They treated me to rice, beans, and sausage—which was lovely—and sent me on my way. Our farewells were short and sweet due to the rain clouds that began forming in the sky. I hurried to my truck and shouted one last goodbye before driving off.

On the way home I couldn't stop thinking about what was said. Lydia and Roger were both so open with me that for a moment I thought it strange. "Don't be so quick to judge," were the kind of words I grew up with, and, for some reason, I had a bad habit of forgetting them.

It needs to be said that I didn't stay in contact with Roger or Lydia after our first get-together; however, they were regularly on my mind. For the longest time I believed that my complicated life would only clash with my family's simple philosophy, and the idea of coexisting struck me as too difficult. It wouldn't be until much later that I lived to regret my decision.

* * *

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **2:00 pm**_

 _ **Sergeant Jeffery Hancock**_

 _ **Near the mines of Mount Washington…**_

Johnson's tracks had went cold within the first hour, and after what felt like days, Hancock was met by a fork in the path. One tunnel went left into darkness and the other went right into darkness. His mouth was so dry he couldn't even speak, and the sweat stuck to his face had turned brown with dirt. _So, this is what it's like to be buried alive,_ he thought to himself.

Unable to choose which way to go, he sat down and hung his head when the muscles in his neck could no longer support its weight. "Damn it," he tried, but instead ended up choking himself. He coughed loudly, and he hummed in pain as he felt the inside of his throat crack. The grinding of his teeth kept him from punching the ground. _I'm never getting out of here. Buried alive. Fuck!_ His innermost thoughts screamed so loudly they gave him a headache.

He fumbled and tossed around until he stood to his feet once more. His shoulders throbbed, his head throbbed, his knees cracked, and his back felt like a weight had crushed it. Pulling whatever ounce of energy he had left, Hancock headed toward the left and stared emotionless down its tunnel. _Nothing as far as the eye can fucking see,_ spoke the demon in his mind. Even more hopelessly, he headed toward the right tunnel and saw even less down it than the other. _I don't even care anymore,_ were his thoughts; but he still continued to go with his instincts. And his instincts told him to go left.

He dragged himself forward for the next several minutes until he again collapsed. A cry escaped his mouth immediately upon his ribs connecting with the ground. "Fuck!" was what it said. Gasping for breath, he crawled inch by inch, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He sensed the blood drip from his fingernails as he dug them into the dirt. Light strokes of red stained the ground.

Somewhere—he wasn't sure where—he began hearing the pattern of rapid feet. "Hello?" he asked weakly. All the remaining strength he had left was near empty, and he couldn't for the life of him stand back up. He continued to crawl, his fingers caked in blood and dirt; and as he made it into an opening, where he was no longer trapped inside the sea of claustrophobic tunnels, he noticed the smallest morsel of light. Hancock trailed towards it using his knees and elbows, his mind racing with thoughts such as: _I'm free. Follow the light. I'm going to make it._ The fate of his partner no longer mattered to him in that single moment of hope; it was as if he had gone alone, and he had never heard Johnson's scream as he was dragged off to God knows where.

Each inch forward felt like a mile. The light steadily grew closer, eventually lighting the entire mine, and Hancock could see the falling snow outside the cave's mouth. An old rotted set of tracks, a rusty table harboring equally rusted utensils, and a large steel cart were all that stood between him and the outside. Pulling together every fiber, clinching every muscle, he propped himself up by allowing the table to support his weight. For the next several minutes Hancock simply stood there without moving; his heart beat a million miles a minute, and every shallow breath was a dagger in the chest.

The wind whistled between the tree branches, and a chilly tingle crept up his spine. _I need to get out of here,_ was the pestering thought that wouldn't leave. He hoped it would be enough to motivate him to take that first step; but as he stood and pondered, his legs shaking, his fingertips sore and blistered, the sudden sound of sped up feet—the same he'd heard in the mine—vibrated from deeper within the mineshaft. Hancock glanced over his right shoulder and saw what looked like a shadowy figure crawling up the walls.

Terrified, he bolted out of the mine—his pain replaced with adrenaline—and tripped over a fat root that came out from nowhere. His face was the first to hit the ground, shattering his nose and chipping one of his teeth. "Fuck!" he seethed, biting on his tongue so he wouldn't scream—the last thing he wanted was alerting the creature of his location. Blood oozed from his mouth and nose, and the snow beneath sucked it up hungrily.

 _Have to keep going. Damn it, Hancock! Get yourself together._ Without glancing back, and with the freezing snow falling all around, he ran deeper into the forest. He wasn't sure where he was going, but anywhere away from the mine was a good start. However, he knew he would have to find shelter before freezing death.

He wiped the blood constantly from his mouth, grunting and straining to slog through the knee high snow. There was only one way he could make it, and that was by not overexerting himself. After every fifteen steps he would take a moment, lean up against one of the evergreen trees, and catch his breath. It wasn't until his fourth time that he tore off one of his sleeves and used the cloth to cover his mouth and nose to stop the bleeding. "This is getting ridiculous," he spoke angrily to himself, staring off into the bleak distance.

One thing he hadn't notice before was that the forest actually appeared quite beautiful. The trees were as green as green could be, and the accumulated snow on their branches only heightened the impression the colors left on him. The sky was blue and gray at the same time; but he could only make out small bits and pieces of it due to the forming blizzard. Mount Washington: one of the nicest looking places to visit. The family that owned it sure knew how to pick great locations. Though there lingered several major problems—problems that would not go away for a long time—and they were: the odd sightings of some stranger roaming the woods, the death of Hannah and Beth Washington, the events that unfolded a year after their deaths, the disappearance and recovery of Joshua Washington, and now the disappearance of his partner Johnson. All of it added together left Hancock with so many questions, but there was only one that scared him: what was it that he saw in the mines?

Hancock knew that the things that took Johnson weren't human; each piece of evidence proved it. They were obviously humanoids, but the shape of their feet and their long, sharp toenails were reminiscent of something found in a horror movie. And the longer he thought about it the more believable his theory became, reaching a point that he realized that what he was dealing with was far beyond some insane man in the woods. There were supernatural elements at work. "This is way above my pay grade," he mumbled, looking upwards at the drooping tree branches above him. A few more out of place thoughts popped inside his head, but he quickly shook them off and carried on his way.

Engulfed by the snow storm, Hancock located a small shack beneath a hill and past a small stream of frozen water. He crossed the stream to get to it and hurriedly stepped inside. His sense of smell was ravaged by musty air and the stink of decaying wood. He closed the shack door and stumbled upon an old lantern. Hancock, dusting the snow off his shirt and pants, picked up the lantern and realized that there was still some oil remaining. The metal handle was slightly rusted and the glass was slightly bruised but not busted. "Come on, please work!" Several times Hancock tried turning the switch, and each time failed. He was only ever graced by a sudden spark that immediately died; but it still didn't stop him from trying for several minutes.

"Damn it!" he cried out, throwing the lantern on the ground. He then began looking around the shack for a flashlight or anything that could produce light; however, all he found were rusted shovels, a gas mask, miner helmets, an old pair of overalls, and a poorly constructed table that had sharp nails protruding from it. As he searched, the blizzard outside intensified. The wind sounded as if it was rolling off a freight train. With no light and no fire to keep him warm, Hancock wondered if he had a better chance of survival back in the mine. Then again . . .

"Don't think about that," he encouraged himself, stumbling upon a ripped sheet made from cotton. It was tucked behind a pile of broken shovels, soaked in wet mud and layered over with fallen leaves. Hancock reached down to pick it up but reeled back in horror when he saw a giant spider stride across with its long, hairy legs. Its eyes were black and soulless; its large fangs twitched. Hancock, not wanting to be disturbed by the arachnid's presence, carefully bent down and picked up one of the chipped shovels. He then raised the piece high into the air and brought it down right on top of the spider. All he heard was a disgusting squishing sound when it connected. He tossed the shovel aside and saw that the eight legged monster had been crushed into several gooey parts.

Satisfied, he quickly wiped off the leaves from the sheet and gathered the fabric in his arms. Hancock then hurried to the center of the shack and began to spread it all out, shaking it constantly and hoping he could somehow remove every last speck of dirt. He failed in his attempts, but found himself not caring as he wrapped his body inside the warmness of the cotton. The shack creaked alongside every gust of wind. Tree branches snapped in two, smacking loudly against the roof every thirty minutes or so. Hancock spent most of his time tucked in the tightest corner with the sheet covering him and trying to keep his body temperature from dropping too low. It seemed to be working, but night had yet to pass over him, and Hancock knew that his life would be in the balance of whether or not he could survive until dawn.

For now, though, he could only handle one hour at a time.

* * *

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **2:00 pm**_

 _ **Josh/Sam**_

The remainder of their ride to Elliot's house was managed in awkward silence. What had occurred between them kept both Josh and Sam unsure about their feelings. Though somewhere in this mess of emotions, heartache, and worry there was, for just a moment, a subtle light of friendship, love, and security. But as I've mentioned before, Josh was not a poet, and so he couldn't put what he was feeling into words. Sam, even with all her logic and reasoning, was even more lost.

Every time she looked at him she felt eager; eager to learn what was going on in his head, eager to be his friend, and eager to forget what happened that fateful night. But how could she forget? How could she just let it all go? To live in total denial, never coming to terms with her feelings? She couldn't no matter how hard she tried. Even though they shared a kiss, Sam still felt as distant to Josh as she did on the night of the prank. And whatever feelings of friendship, love, and security she possessed were slowly lost in the unrelenting river of reality.

* * *

Lydia and Marybeth were outside in their yard playing tag. The young girl giggled wildly as her little legs carried her halfway across the lawn. She was so caught up in her own world that she didn't notice the car pulling into the driveway. Luckily, Sam saw the child just in time to slam on the breaks. The wheels squealed. Lydia, in sudden horror, ran to her daughter and grabbed her tightly by the arm, flinging her out of the way. When she knew her child was safe, Lydia looked at the two visitors inside the car and immediately instructed Marybeth to go inside the house. Without question, the girl did as her mother said.

Josh and Sam could easily tell by the look on the woman's face that the entire ordeal unnerved her greatly. And for a minute, neither of them spoke a word, hoping the rage that Lydia felt towards them was misplaced and would soon evaporate. It wasn't until Josh began laughing that the silence was broken. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy . . ." He shook his head. "I can't believe you almost ran over a child."

"I didn't mean to!" Sam punched him in the arm. "You need to stop being such an ass."

"Okay, okay, sheesh—not so hard." The imprint Sam left on his arm was more painful than what he expected, and so he couldn't help but act surprised by her strength. Though his surprise soon turned to anxiety when he saw Lydia approach them.

They exited the vehicle, and Josh was the first to greet the woman with a friendly wave. It was awkward to say the least, but Sam tried her best to follow his lead, thinking to herself as Josh incoherently introduced himself with bizarre hand gestures: _He really didn't think this through._ She was about to roll her eyes, but stopped herself when Josh tugged on her arm.

"And this," he began, "is my friend Samantha." He then directed the two strangers toward each other, continuing: "But everyone just calls her Sam—and Sammy in some cases," he added the last bit in a whisper, smirking.

The ladies shook hands. "It's so great to finally meet you two," Lydia said, having forgiven or completely forgotten that they nearly ran over her child a minute earlier. She offered them inside without any hesitation. "Marybeth should be in her room," she said, opening the screen door and allowing them into her house.

In the far corner of the living room was a large heater. It kept everything at a nice room temperature; so Josh took off his jacket and asked: "Is it okay if I put this somewhere?"

Lydia brought them into the dining room. "Of course. You can leave it on the table. In the meantime," she looked at Sam, "I can show your friend to Marybeth's room. It's been a long time since we had visitors. I'm sure she'll be happy to see you."

After placing his jacket down on the table, and after the two women left, Josh headed into the living room and sat down on the couch. The television was turned on to channel seven and was showing one of his favorite movies: _Underworld._ He tempted himself to reach for the remote beside him and turn it up, but went against it when he thought that it would be better not to touch anything.

Instead, as he waited for Lydia to come back down, his eyes started wandering around the house. From his place on the sofa he could only see so far; but what he did see was enough for him to determine that Elliot and his wife were lower class; which, to Josh, meant that they had enough money for the necessities of life, but not enough to enjoy themselves. It was rather odd. He was so accustomed to his rich lifestyle that being in the home of someone poor made him uneasy. Even Sam with her shitty car was better off than these people. And he began wondering if they would get along. Did poor people even like the same things rich people did? What kind of mindset did the lower class possess? He figured he'd know soon enough.

 _Need to stop thinking so much, Josh,_ he told himself. _Listen to your doctor's advice for once and stop worrying. Everything will be okay. You got one of your best friends with you . . ._

The word "friend" in regards to Sam seemed to be an oversimplification of their relationship. And it was his wild imagination that led him back to that kiss. He still wasn't sure what happened—well, he knew _what_ happened, but he wasn't sure what to make of it. A part of him enjoyed it, while another more abrasive part told him that it was wrong. However, the only opinion that really mattered to him was Sam's. What were her thoughts? He wondered. What did she believe it to be? Surely, she must've seen him as more than a friend to have kissed him in the first place, but he wouldn't know for sure until he asked her. _If_ he asked her. He still couldn't handle his own feelings, so how could he possibly handle somebody else's? That was the catch though. Sam wasn't just a somebody, and he knew it. Deep within himself he knew that he felt something for her, but it was his low self-esteem that made him shy away from the idea.

His life was becoming more and more like a movie soap opera. Which, really, compared to the horror movie he used to live this was actually an improvement. Wendigos, amputations, blood and gore, etc, that was all in the past; and it was up to him from now on to look forward to the future. Elliot taught him that. He wondered how his buddy was doing since he saw him in jail. _I hope you're doing okay,_ he thought for only moment before he heard someone walking down the steps. It was Lydia.

Sam must've left a good impression on her because the woman was smiling delightfully. Her blonde hair was held back in a pony tail, her eyes shined like sapphires, and her youthful face was lightly dusted over with freckles. She appeared like the exact opposite of her husband. Whereas Roger was gruff and threatening, Lydia possessed certain charms that were rare among people; she was humble in her strides, careful when she spoke, and thoughtful in all her actions. Parts of her reminded Josh of Sam while everything else reminded him of his mother. It was an odd combination, but it was one he comfortably breathed around.

"I want to thank you so much for coming," she said and sat down beside him, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her lap. "Marybeth was so happy that you brought your friend. She's such a nice young woman. How long have you known each other?"

"Years," Josh replied rather vaguely. Honestly, he couldn't remember how long. "She's one of my best friends," he continued. "I don't know where I'd be without her."

Lydia seemed to understand exactly what he was talking about. "Then you better never let her go. True friends are hard to come by; but I'm sure you know that already."

They sat there in a moment of silence with each reflecting on those they knew.

"So," she finally spoke up, "how is Roger doing? I haven't been able to go see him because I haven't found a babysitter I feel comfortable enough with to watch Marybeth. She's so fragile after the incident..." A notable frown etched its way onto her person—a frown resembling deep disgust and sadness.

Josh was pretty sure that she didn't know that he knew, and he dared not push the subject any more than what he felt was socially acceptable. So, in hopes for them to not be lost in a sea of painful memories, he perked up, smiled, and said with as much cheerfulness as he could: "Roger's getting by. He's a really good man—intelligent, respectful, and I could tell he loves his family more than any father ever could." The silence that followed didn't disturb Josh; he simply continued talking: "He helped me out a lot. I might go even as far to say that he saved me, believing in me when I didn't believe in myself—showed me that I still had friends I could go to. Sam being one of them."

Tiny bits of tears formed in Lydia's eyes; she was trying desperately not to cry. Josh's heart raced hectically at the sight. What was he supposed to do? He didn't mean to make her cry. "I'm so sorry," he pleaded. "I didn't mean to—"

"It isn't your fault, dear," she said somberly. "It's just… hard knowing that I might never get to see him again outside prison walls." As soon as she finished muttering that last sentence her entire face broke down in sobs. Josh tried comforting her.

"Ssh," he said softly, though he couldn't even hear himself think with her breaking down before his eyes. "It's okay." He tried patting her shoulder, but nothing seemed to be working. "Can I get you something?"

Embarrassed, Lydia covered her soaked face with her hands. "I'm… I can't..." Like a lost child she fell into Josh's arms, speaking something incomprehensible into his shoulder.

There was great pain and understanding illuminating from how Josh's body didn't tense up when she came crashing down on him. He hugged her. "Everything will be okay," he said gently, thinking of the times he cried in front of his mother and how she would comfort him. "We can tough it out together," then came the words only Sam would speak. "We're here for you." Again, he was sounding more like those he knew rather than himself.

"Why did this have to happen to us?" she sobbed more and more uncontrollably. "We've tried our best to live for the Lord—it's not fair. It hurts. It hurts so much."

He could feel the tears as they landed on his shirt. Josh, not knowing what to do in such a tense situation, said nothing, and instead did the only thing he could think of—and that was listening and allowing Lydia to get everything off her chest. She obviously didn't have any family members or close friends to talk to, so he would have to be the one to be there for her. It was the least he could do for Roger; and it was the least he could do for the man's family.

* * *

Meanwhile, Sam and Marybeth were playing tea party. The small plastic table was all set up with tiny glass cups and plates. Marybeth, who was laughing and smiling the whole time, sat across from Sam who was just enjoying feeling like a kid again. Accompanying them was the esteemed Mr. Fuzzball (a stuffed teddy bear dressed in a suit and top hat), the shy Abigail Dinopants (a toy dinosaur), and the beautiful Misses Teapots (a doll with buttons for eyes.)

They were all very sophisticated company, that's at least what Sam said as she took sips from her teacup, her pinkie raised in a very elegant manner. "Would you like some more sugar, Marybeth?" the young woman asked, reaching her hand over the pretend sugar jar.

"Yes, please," the little girl replied, happily gazing at Sam as she allowed her to pour imagined sugar into her cup. Then, with her tiny hands, lifted the glass to her mouth and took a quick sip. "Yummy!" she shouted blissfully. From the corner of her eye she saw that Mr. Fuzzball had fallen over and had also knocked over his silverware. "Mr. Fuzzball is so silly," she said, picking him up and fixing his top hat. "He always falls over. Mommy says he's just clumsy."

"He is very clumsy," Sam agreed. "I do like his top hat though."

Marybeth nodded pleasantly. "Me too. Mommy bought it for Christmas."

"She did? That was very nice of her. I guess you and Mr. Fuzzball are really close friends?" She decided right then that this conversation was too adorable to not tell Josh once they returned to her car.

"We're best friends!" Taking the stuffed animal into her arms, Marybeth squeezed him tightly. "Isn't that right, Mr. Fuzzball?" She answered her own question with Mr. Fuzzball's voice: "That's right."

* * *

Josh had known many emotions: sadness, fear, terror, anger, love, hatred—and the ones he sympathized with the most were the feelings of loss and neglect. That's what he believed Lydia felt as they sat there with each other after she'd finally released him from her wet grasp. The tears had stopped flowing, and all she had left was the terrible feeling that takes hold when a person feels they allowed someone to see too deep into their soul. "I'm sorry," was all she could really say to combat the feeling. "I shouldn't have done that. I should've had better control of myself. Please," she stood up, "can I get you anything? Are you thirsty? Maybe hungry?"

Josh foresaw that denying her request would only make matters worse. "I am kinda thirsty. If you don't mind, I would love to have a drink."

Lydia's emotions were beginning to come under control. _Such a sweet young man,_ she thought to herself as she entered the kitchen. _I wonder what he would like._ She chuckled quietly to herself. _If he's anything like Roger, he'll definitely like Budweiser._ She reached into the refrigerator and brought out a bottle, but then thought: _Is he even old enough?_

"Josh!" she shouted, already reaching into the drawers for her bottle opener. The Budweiser was sitting nice and cool on the counter.

"Yeah?" came his reply from the sofa.

"How old are you?" she asked as she popped open the bottle.

"Twenty-two!" A pause. "And if it's for what I'm thinking, then, yes, I love beer!"

After pouring herself a cup of tea, she brought him his drink and sat back down, but this time made sure there was an appropriate distance between them, any closer and it would be too awkward.

Budweiser wasn't his favorite, but he thanked her regardless. Taking a long swig, he hadn't noticed how dry his mouth was until now. He placed the bottle on the coffee table in front of them and watched Lydia as she finished the rest of her herbal tea. It was then that Josh wondered how Sam was doing with Marybeth. _She's fine,_ he told himself. _She's a people person. They're probably getting along great._ Realizing that he himself had become too distracted on such thoughts, Josh quickly turned the tables and started a new conversation with Lydia—hoping they wouldn't open any more old wounds.

"It's nice being out of the house," he said, smirking. "I was actually kinda nervous about coming; but I felt obligated because of Elliot."

"You mentioned before that he helped you?" asked Lydia.

Josh nodded. "He did. I might as well tell you the story. It's a long one. You sure you want to hear it?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Lydia appeared to be already invested in the mystery of how the two men met and what the reasons behind Josh's arrest were.

He explained how he went to Callbe's Skating Rink with Sam; of course skipping over their phone conversations and his time in Lambrook. "There was this one dude—can't remember his name—that kept calling her babe." He paused, reflecting on how he could put the fight into words. There wasn't any way he was going to tell her what caused the fight (the heated mentioning of Chris and his other friends) nor was he going to mention how he nearly killed the kid, and instead came up with a lie. "It was really annoying," he continued, "and usually I don't get into fights with losers, but I could tell Sam was getting uncomfortable; so I asked him to stop. And when he didn't—well, we got into it. Some words were said and before anyone knew it, we were kicking the shit out of each other."

Lydia sighed. "I guess boys will be boys. Did somebody call the cops?"

"You know it. Some dude had to separate us. I was given a black eye, and I think I might've broken the other guy's nose." He paused so all of it could resonate with her. "The police arrived and took us to jail. I honestly can't remember the ride there, but I do remember waking up inside a cell with Elliot. Not gonna lie, but he scared me at first."

She contained her laughter. "Roger can be pretty threatening to those who don't know him. He's really just a big ol' teddy bear."

"He could've fooled me," Josh barked back humorously. "Anyways, it was late at night, my head was killing me, and all I could hear were inmates bitching about how cold it was. I was one lucky asshole to get bunked in with Roger—those other guys looked like the kind that waited for someone to drop the soap. Kinda scary, but not the point. You see, a few years ago, my sister's were killed in a car crash." Lying was the only way he would tell the story.

"That's horrible! I'm so sorry, Josh." Lydia showed true sympathy through the emotional expression on her face.

"It's alright. I'm just glad I got to spend time with them before the incident." His lies were only digging him deeper and deeper into a hole; and the more he told them, the more he started believing them himself. "You could say that for the longest time I was resentful. I pushed away everyone: Sam, my mom, my dad, everyone. I felt like life wasn't worth living without Hannah and Beth."

"Were those your sisters' names?"

"Yes." His mouth grew drier with every sentence; and so he grabbed the bottle from the coffee table and took another most needed sip. "I dropped out of college, started seeing a therapist, but none of it worked. My friends tried to help, but I pushed them away, saying things I shouldn't have said, treating them unfairly. Sam tried reaching out to me; but I still couldn't accept the fact that my sisters were dead, and that I felt partially responsible."

Lydia sat in contemplative silence, listening to every word. Her lips would curve from a frown to a smile depending on what was spoken and how Josh himself reacted to certain parts.

"And as the years past, I only felt worse. I sometimes wondered if I could've did things differently. Damn it," he sniffed, "I hate getting emotional." He took another sip from his bottle. "I sound like a wimp." Lydia was about to say something, but Josh stopped her. "Let's just skip all the unnecessary details and get to the meat of the story." After coughing into his fist—it was almost as if the act itself was prepping him to finish the story—and after adjusting himself on the couch, Josh continued: "So, I got to talking with Elliot. I told him about what happened, and he told me a little about his life—though he seemed more concerned about me than himself. I didn't ask him why that was, but I believed it had something to do with him being a genuine person. His advice to me was simple, and yet I found myself really listening to him—more than I've ever listened to anybody. He convinced me that I needed to ask my friends for forgiveness, and that they were readily waiting to forgive me—all I had to do was ask. And he was right—well, at least as far as two friends were concerned."

"Was Sam one of them?"

"Yes." Josh nodded. His expression was thoughtful and sincere—two traits he never thought he actually possessed—and his thoughts were comprised of sole contemplation. "He made me realize that if I couldn't live for myself, I could at least live for them." His mind caused his eyes to stare off into the distance, but then they returned to Lydia who was simply sitting there. "Did any of that make sense?" He raised a brow, a little disturbed by how personal everything he said was.

Lydia smiled. "Don't worry about what I think, Josh," she said, patting him on the shoulder, "it only matters what you think. I'm so glad my husband helped you to see things in a positive light. He always did that for me."

"I promised him that I would find you guys and tell you just how much he loves you." Josh sighed, and his face grew hot at the sight of Lydia's tears. However, they weren't sad tears—he could still see the brightness of her face behind the drops. "I hope one day you two can be together again."

"Me too," she replied in a half whisper. She wiped away the water on her cheeks and tried her best to return to more stable emotions.

Josh didn't mind however; and at that current moment in time all he could really think of was the beautiful girl a floor above them. He thought more about their kiss, and it made him a bit unsettled in his stomach, while the rest of him compared Lydia's and Roger's love with his and Sam's friendship. There was just something about her that Josh couldn't get enough of, and he wondered what the future had in store for them.

Though it was unclear to Josh and Sam, Lydia could easily tell that the two had feelings for one another. However, she said nothing about it, not wanting to cause any trouble. She figured they'd discover everything on their own. In fact, it reminded her all too much of her relations with Roger back when they were young. The thoughts were both pleasant and amusing; and she only hoped that Sam and Josh would eventually make wonderful memories of their own.

They remained at the house for another two hours. Within that time the following occurred: Sam and Marybeth continued to play together, while Josh and Lydia continued to touch on subjects that were less invasive—topics such as: Lydia's job, Josh's therapy sessions, local news, etc.

* * *

By the time the clock reached 5:00, Sam and Josh were already heading out the door. Lydia refused to let Marybeth come down the stairs until they were gone—this was due to the fact of Josh being a man. Sam had previously spoken her goodbyes to the young girl as she left her room; so, there was no reason for them to hang around any longer. They waved goodbye one last time as they walked across the lawn. The sky above had darkened, and the wind blew from the north in a very cold manner.

Josh had retrieved his jacket from the table in the dining room and zipped it up once they entered the car. "Looks like it's about to rain," he observed, looking up at the clouds as Sam sat in the driver's seat.

"Oh, really? You think?" she teased before cranking up the car. The driveway was easy to pull out of since there wasn't any oncoming traffic; and once they were back on the road, Josh turned on the radio to one of the rock stations. They remained silent for a long time. Obviously, the tension between them and the kiss hadn't ran its course. It was still bubbling inside them; and every time they were about to say something: they'd look at the other, but immediately get cold feet. So, in silence they remained.

It wasn't until Josh's stomach began rumbling that something was finally said. "I'm starving. There's gotta be somewhere we can eat." He looked outside his window and saw in the distance a McDonald's sign. "You in the mood for a hamburger, Sammy?" he asked playfully.

Sam kept her attention on the road, but couldn't help but to glance at the fast food restaurant as she drove by it. "Oh, no," she scolded, shaking her head, "we are _not_ eating there." She glared at Josh when she heard him groan. "Stop being a cry baby. My car, my rules. And that means you either let me pick the place or you can just go hungry. I'm sure your mom has prepared for you a nice, diet-friendly meal at home."

"That's real cold, Sammy," Josh replied solemnly. He allowed a minute to pass until he finally sighed in defeat. "Fine. What place do you have in mind? I swear, they better have at least one—"

"They don't."

"You're killing me!"

"Shut up," she snapped back, though she couldn't hide her smirk. "Come on, live a little. Try something new for once; you might like it."

"I really, _really_ doubt that. The last time I ate a vegetable... well, actually, I can't remember the last time I ate one."

"See? That's not healthy," she tried reasoning, but Josh simply frowned. "You can't just eat meat and expect yourself to—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," interrupted Josh. "I get it, Ms. Cheerleader. Gotta think about the animals and my health and whatever else it is you vegans preach about."

"I am _not_ preaching."

"Then I'm not an asshole! I'm sure everyone will be relieved to know."

"I wouldn't count on it, buster," Sam hissed. "Nobody is a bigger asshole than you."

"Mike would disagree. Don't tell him I said that though; he might punch me again."

"You sure as hell would deserve it," she mumbled quietly to herself, returning her main focus on the road. The restaurant she had in mind was called The Green Garden.

 _*The Green Garden was a modern vegan diner founded in 2003. It was, according to reviews, a very clean and respectful place to eat. The owner was a woman named Natalie Perryman aged at around 30 upon The Green Garden's opening (43 currently). The head chief was one Adam Wong_ _ **.**_ _*_

"What did you, Sammy?" Josh asked with fake curiosity. He knew _exactly_ what she said.

Sam shrugged. "Nothing, nothing at all."

"Hmm hmm. Sure, whatever you say."

* * *

Minutes passed by unnoticed in the midst of their bickering; and as Sam slowly turned off the highway and into the parking lot, Josh unbuckled; it was as if he was preparing to lunge out as soon as the vehicle stopped—his growling stomach couldn't take any more. By now the sky had been grown fat with dark clouds, and the cold atmosphere shivered with every rumble of thunder.

Sam parked right in front of the diner, unbuckled, and took out her phone. She noticed Josh going for the door handle, but stopped him when she grabbed his shoulder. "Wait a second will you? I need to text my mom."

Josh sighed and leaned back against his seat. "Look at you being all responsible. Is little Ms. Cheerleader afraid of getting in trouble?"

Ignoring him seemed the best option; so that's what Sam did. Without saying a word, she quickly texted her mother.

 _Sam: Hey, mom. I'm going to be a little late. Josh and I are stopping by The Green Garden to get something to eat. I hope that's okay with you._

 _Amanda: That's wonderful, honey. I hope you two have fun._

After reading her mom's message and putting away her phone, Sam reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a brush. Josh, dumbfounded, scoffed in retaliation against her neediness for perfection.

"Your hair looks fine." He urged her to get out of car. "Come on already!" he groaned loudly. "My stomach is about to eat itself—if that happens, I'm suing you big time."

Sam, still refusing to listen to him, looked at herself through the rear-view mirror. She tossed the brush back into her bag once she felt comfortable enough with her image. "Okay," she said, opening the car door, "we can go now. All I ask is that you please behave. I don't think I could handle another trip to the courthouse with your mother."

"Have a little faith, Sammy," Josh said as he led them through the glass doors into the restaurant.

Inside they were immediately introduced to a variety of delicious smells from steamed rice to baked potatoes to veggie burgers. And it all came bundled together with a friendly staff. Josh found it all very exciting and new. He'd never been to a vegan food joint, and so he was extremely curious to try out many different dishes.

They were sat down by a charming waiter and were given their menus. On the front were the daily specials and appetizers; on the back and inner pages were a plethora of unique foods—all of which looked yummy. Josh had a hard time deciding.

"Sam," he looked up from his menu with a smirk on his face, "they have macaroni and cheese! How is that even possible?"

"It's not real cheese, dummy," she laughed. "They also have cheese pizza."

"You mean _vegan_ pizza?"

"If that's what you want to call it. I tried it about a week ago; it's really good. You can also pick your toppings. Tofu, peppers, onions… a whole bunch."

It was almost too much for Josh's mind to process. He turned to the next page and was fascinated when he saw an entire assortment of imitation meats: lobster, shrimp, steak, chicken, oyster… "There's so much to choose from! It's like I died and gone to hippie heaven."

"Just because we're hippies," Sam playfully smacked the table, causing Josh's eyes to look up from all the tasty images of food, "doesn't mean that we don't like to eat."

"I dunno how you're not a fat ass," Josh returned to his browsing. "I mean, come on," he then read through the desserts on the next page, "ice cream, chocolate cake, vanilla pudding, and something called a dark chocolate cronut? What the hell is that?"

Sam shrugged. "Why don't you order it and find out?"

Josh didn't need any convincing. "I'll order it as soon as I finish everything else, and don't worry," he added, "I'll be paying for my own food."

"Whew," she sighed, pretending to wipe sweat from her forehead, "that's a relief. I've seen how much you can eat. I thought I was going to have to sell my car to pay for it."

"I don't eat _that_ much," Josh denied, though he himself knew he was lying.

"Wanna bet? I've seen you eat a box of donuts all by yourself. I don't understand how you're still alive after that. Anybody else would've had a stroke or something."

"Years of practice, Sammy. Years of practice."

Upon the waiter's return, they had already decided what they wanted. Josh, being as restrictive as he could so he wouldn't feel like a lard-butt, ordered a vegan pizza, a side of steamed brown rice, mac and cheese, asparagus, and one water. Sam on the other hand went with: a large salad without dressing, freshly cooked brussels sprouts, spicy peas, and a water as well.

 _*The Green Garden allowed only two side dishes without extra charge. If you ordered more than two, each side dish would cost three-eight dollars.*_

The food was brought to them in plates and bowls. Josh eyed all of it hungrily. The pizza he had ordered smelt like a dream, topped with peppers and onions. Usually, he didn't like brown rice; but as he observed its moistness and inhaled the faint smell of cinnamon, he knew he had made the right choice. The mac and cheese, of course, looked just as delightful as regular mac and cheese. And the asparagus—well, he heard many good things about the vegetable, though he never tried it himself.

Sam's food, however, was simple and healthy. Brightly colored red tomatoes, green lettuce leaves, and bits of carrots and celery were what made up her salad. The brussels sprouts were warm and their texture was soft. The spicy peas was the only unique plate. Mixed in with the little green balls were jalapeno peppers and a tiny dash of garlic seasoning.

They thanked the waiter and dug in. The first thing Josh tried was the pizza: its cheese was hot and stringy—but it tasted like real cheese—the peppers and onions were cooked to perfection, while the crust had a notably satisfying crunch. Next up was the macaroni and cheese: hot to the touch, but warm when eaten; the noodles reminded him of the mac and cheese one would find in a traditional steak house, nothing special, but still tasty. The brown rice was the hottest part of his meal; he waited several minutes before taking a second bite; he could taste the cinnamon, but it wasn't possessing, for the most part it tasted like regular brown rice. Then it was on to the asparagus. At first glance, the asparagus appeared to be a longer version of broccoli. Though upon tasting it Josh realized that it was not only better, but he actually enjoyed it. The cooks added some sort of spice that enhanced the flavor tenfold; and Josh just wasn't expecting it.

"Wow," he said in between bites and sips from his water, "this stuff is amazing, Sammy!"

"I knew you'd like it," she said, smiling. "Adam is an excellent cook."

"You know," Josh paused a second from his food, "at first I didn't believe you about vegan food being good, but I admit that I was wrong."

"I'm glad." For some reason, as Josh noticed, Sam still hadn't touch her food. Her expression made her look uninterested in eating and their conversation.

"Are you alright, Sammy?" Josh peered over the table, snatching her eyes.

"I was just thinking . . ." she immediately shook her head, "no, it's stupid." Like a robot she picked up her fork, plucked a ripe tomato from her salad, and ate it; however, there appeared no pleasure in her doing so.

"Go ahead, tell me." Josh stopped eating his food so he could listen to her.

"I was—eh, not really sure how to say this." A pause. Then, all of sudden, Sam became heated and leaned over the table, no longer was she able to control her emotions. "What happened in the car between us?"

His eyes widened. "What are you talking about?"

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Not wishing to disturb the other people sitting around them, Sam kept her voice low enough that only Josh could hear her. "The kiss. What were we thinking?"

Josh leaned back in his seat; he looked away for a long moment in silent reflection. Sam studied his features as they were thoughtful and confused at the same time. "I . . ." he started, but stopped. He could feel her eyes reading him like a book, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know," he finally answered, refusing to look up. "We're still friends, right? I don't want things to be any different between us." His chest clenched in anxious anticipation for her answer. The stress eventually grew so strong that his entire self became rigid; and Sam still hadn't spoken a word. "Come on, Sammy, say something already. I want us to stay friends, you know that. What happened in the past . . . I'm ready to forget it. Please, I just want us to stay friends." There then came solace when she touched his hand. Josh glanced up, ready to say something, but their eyes locked and all the words disappeared.

Sam was the first to smile and say something. "Josh," she said, "you have nothing to fear. We're still friends; and we always will be."

Exhausted and relieved, Josh replied: "Thank you, Sam. That really means a lot." He touched her hand back; and soon everything was better. "And thank you for coming with me today. I don't think I would've had the courage to go it alone." He then raised his glass in the air for a small toast. "Here's looking at you, kid."

"That's so cheesy."

"You wouldn't have it any other way."

Together they tapped glasses and finished their meals. And when the waiter came around with their bill Josh couldn't believe how expensive it was. "One hundred dollars for just one order of cheese pizza?"

"No, dummy, it says ten. See the decimal? One hundred is the total." She shook her head and tried her best not to laugh out loud.

"Ah, I see," his cheeks went red, "that makes a lot more sense, doesn't it?"

"Come on, champ," she said once everything was paid for. "Let's get you home."

* * *

 _ **November 18**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Thursday**_

 _ **3:05 pm**_

 _ **Chris**_

The hotel pleased Ashley greatly; but she was a bit upset with Chris for lying to her about it just being okay. And after they finished unpacking their stuff and entered their room—with its glossy wooden cabinets, stove, refrigerator, flat screen, phone, couch, and bed—she asked: "How much did this place cost?"

Chris in the middle of her question was already fixing himself something to eat: a low-fat veggie burger with a side of sweet potato fries. He had already tossed everything into the stove when he finally gave Ashley's question any credence. "Does it really matter?" He obviously wasn't in the mood for discussing how he managed his money. In fact, he was so out of sorts with the conversation that he ignored Ashley as he began texting Ian on his phone.

"Geeze," was her response, "I was just asking." She said nothing more, finding the situation awkward, and decided that it would be a good time to take a shower. Chris planned for them to leave by five o'clock so they could go see his grandmother in the hospital; and after such a long car trip she felt absolutely filthy.

"Wait a second before you go in there," he said, stopping her when he noticed that she had some of her clothes in her arms. He hurried to the bathroom door and informed Ashley: "It'll just be a second. I need to shave and . . ."

She cringed in disgust, interrupting him. "Don't be so detailed, Chris. I got it. I'll wait." Sighing, Ashley sat down at the foot of their bed; Chris closed the door; and there she waited for several minutes, watching television and twiddling her thumbs.

Meanwhile, Chris spent several minutes looking at himself in the mirror. The razor was dull, and he worried it wouldn't remove the stubble around his chin and neck. But once he rinsed its blades in the sink, and after dabbing some shaving cream on his face, he was pleased to see that the razor was plenty sharp enough to do its job. During which, Ashley was growing impatient.

He jolted when she banged on the door, causing him to stumble with the razor and cut open his cheek. "Damn it, Ash," he growled, throwing the razor in the sink, caring little about the slowly reddening splotches of shaving cream on his face. He slammed open the door and shouted: "What the hell is it?" The veins in his neck pulsated, and his eyes darkened. "I told you I needed to shave!" Stomping around to the other side of the bed, blood dripping from his face, Chris kept himself in check by not hitting the wall. Instead, he went back inside the bathroom, shut the door, and continued his routine in anger.

Her heart pumped at a million miles a minute. Chris's little rampage made her not only worried but uncomfortable. He'd never once laid a hand on her; but there were many times which she thought he might—and this was one of those times. It was something she nor anybody else had control over; he was a mess, Ashley knew this, and there was a constant battle between hating and loving him. And she sometimes thought to herself that him going to boot camp would be the best way for them to take a break from each other; of course, such thoughts only came once in a blue moon. She knew deep down that Chris loved her, and that he hated himself for all the times he hurt her.

Thoughts continued to pester her as she took her shower. The warm water on her skin soon set her mind at ease; and she found herself relaxed. She knew Chris was outside the door pacing back and forth, unable to sit down and wait for her to finish; but the sensation of heat and steam protected her from thinking too much about it. All that mattered to her at that moment in time was bathing.

He knocked on the door. "Are you almost done? I'd like to leave before five."

Ashley turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping herself in a towel, she started blow drying and brushing her hair. "Almost done," she replied. After putting on her clothes, she stepped back from the mirror and looked a herself. Her eyes were a bit saggy from lack of sleep, but, other than that, she was pleased with her appearance—and she assumed Chris would be too. It was important, she felt, to dress appropriately for the occasion. Bright colors were out of the question—she didn't want to stand out—and so she went with a dark red long-sleeved shirt and a pair of blue jeans. Her sneakers were outside the bathroom inside a small closet across from the kitchen.

Stepping back into the room, she saw Chris laid out on the bed talking to someone on his phone. He sounded agitated, saying things like: "You guys need to wait for me and Ash," or, "Don't yell at me. It's not my fault we're not there yet. Ashley and I have had a _long_ trip," even: "Please, save me the scolding, alright?" He noticed her from the corner of his eye, and after hanging up his cellphone, he sat straight up, and said: "We need to hurry. Dad says she's getting worse."

"Your grandmother?"

"Who else do you think I'm talking about?" He frowned and headed toward the door. Ashley rushed herself in putting on her shoes and tried catching up with him as they headed down the hallway and to the elevator. Chris walked as if he was marching off to war, his shoes smacking the ground with every step forward. He didn't slow down for anyone, not even Ashley.

"Chris," she pleaded, "slow down. I can't catch up."

He sighed heavily and stopped in his tracks without glancing back. "Sorry," was all he said; and once she was at his side, they carried onward.

The elevator ride down was quiet. Ashley wanted to say something, but she could tell by Chris' expression he wasn't in the mood for chatting. _He must be really worked up about his grandmother,_ she thought to herself.

It wasn't until they left the building and walked across the parking lot to his car that someone finally said something. "How far is the hospital?" it was Ashley's voice.

"It's about a thirty minute ride," Chris answered, slipping into the vehicle. He watched Ashley as she went around to the other side. As she closed the door and sat beside him, he noticed a subtle tinge of redness on her face, matched only by the traces of a developed frown. And, for a moment, he simply stared at her.

"Chris?" she asked. "Are you okay?" Adjusting her seat belt, she then uncomfortably pushed back her seat.

Her question snapped him back into reality, and he realized how awkward his staring was. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied, sounding cold and distant. He placed the car into reverse, made sure nobody was behind him, and drove out onto the express way.

* * *

His estimations were correct. It took them exactly twenty-seven minutes for them to arrive. Chris kept to the right until they pulled into the parking lot. After turning off the car, he pulled out his phone and began texting Ian.

"Who are you talking to now?" Ashley asked.

Chris rolled his eyes. "Who do you think? It's Ian."

 _Chris: We're at the hospital._

 _Ian: Alright. Keep me updated. Thoughts and prayers, man, thoughts and prayers._

 _Chris: Thanks, bro._

They exited the vehicle and were immediately met by the chilly November wind. The world had morphed from a soft orange color, with the sun behind the mountains, to a dark blue-ish color, where the stars and the moon served as replacement. The two hurried across the parking lot—their hands tucked inside their jackets—and walked up a set of steps that brought them to the sidewalk. "Ash," he stopped, turning to look at her. "I forgot to tell you," he continued, "but my family is here. I know you don't like mom—but, please, try to avoid getting into an argument." He then began walking again, muttering only to himself: "I really don't need the hassle."

Ashley would've been lying to herself if she said to him: "I don't hate your mom; she only has your best interest at heart." When, in reality, Tina was an obsessive mother who disapproved of anyone Chris brought home. And it wasn't long until Ashley realized that getting into the woman's good graces was equivalent to crawling through barb-wire. Chris knew all too well of the tension between them; but, out of respect for them both, he made it his duty to not take one side over the other; even though his dad was clearly on Ashley's side.

Though despite their differences, both women had many things in common. They were both intelligent and caring, protective and nurturing. They even enjoyed similar hobbies like writing. If it wasn't for his mom's conservatism, she and Ashley could've easily been friends. He only hoped that one day they would accept each other and lay their resentment aside.

Upon entering the hospital, Chris and Ashley were surprised when they had to wait at the back of a line. Clearly, there were many people visiting sick relatives. The people in front of them were a man and women; apparently, according to what could be heard from their conversation, somebody they knew had cancer and were on their last legs. Chris tried his best not to eavesdrop; and he scolded Ashley when he noticed her leaning in so she could listen to the two grieving people.

"Ash, not cool," was what he whispered into her ear, nudging her slightly with his elbow. "Stop being so damn nosy all the time."

"I wasn't being nosy," she grumbled; and the line moved forward. The front desk overflowed with nurses and doctors running from one side of the unit to the other. Behind the doors that bled into the hallways, one could make out the slightest grunts and groans of suffering patients. The noises sent a chill down Ashley's back, and she found herself lingering a few steps behind Chris.

"Are you okay?" he asked when he felt her bush against his arm.

"Not really, no," she replied honestly. "Hospitals always make me anxious."

"You can go back to the car if you want," he said, but she shook her head in response.

The line continued to shrink until Chris and Ashley eventually emerged from the last in line to the front of the line. One of the nurses, whose name tag read as Rebekah, skipped the welcomes and immediately got down to business. Her fat face was sullen and sporting a deep frown while she clicked and typed away on a computer. "Are you here visiting a family member?" she asked without glancing up from the screen.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Chris. "We're here for one Mrs. Isabella Hartley. I'm Christopher Hartley—her grandson—and I'm here with Ashley Brown."

Typing and clicking were the only responses they received from the exhausted nurse. Ashley, in the meantime, touched her boyfriend's hand. "I need to go to the restroom." She was obviously growing more and more anxious—one could tell simply by the way she rocked back and forth.

"Hurry back," he replied, "they'll be taking us to the waiting room in a few minutes. Mom and dad should be there as well."

"I wouldn't want to keep Tina waiting," she smarted back.

"Ash," he held her arm firmly, "please keep your attitude in check. We're not her so you and mom can argue. Okay?" The seriousness in his blue eyes sucked all the humor out of her.

"I'll try," she sighed; and he let go. Upon being freed, Ashley briskly walked through the different sections—A, B, and C—of the patient waiting area. Painful coughs and wheezing trailed behind her as she passed by dozens of sick men and women. The bathroom was at the end of Section C and to the left. It was a public restroom for both men and women; and, at first, she felt uncomfortable. Did that mean both men and women used it at the same time? She shuddered; however, her bladder was about to burst, and so she rushed in with her head pointed downward. _Don't look at the urinals,_ she repeated to herself, totally grossed out by them when she noticed several from the corner of her eye. _Who in their right mind thought this was a good idea?_ was the million dollar question.

Afterwards, she returned to Chris who was sitting in one of the chairs in Section A with his arms folded over his chest. Compared to those around him, most being sick older men, he was the very definition of health. Ashley found herself often loss in how well his clothes fit him. Nobody would've suspected how weak and nonthreatening he was as a teenager—now that he was muscular with shoulders the size of an ox. Even though Ian wasn't her favorite person, she had to admit that he taught Chris well in regards to fitness. But, admittedly, his powerful form only made him scarier when agitated.

She sat beside him, asking, "So, what did they say?"

"They said they'll bring us back to the other waiting room in a minute."

"Did you ask how your grandmother was doing?"

"Yeah, I did," his tone steadied into annoyance, "they didn't know shit—told me the doctor will discuss all the details with me. That fat fucking nurse was a complete bitch. She—"

"Christopher Hartley and Ashley Brown to the to front desk, please," spoke the intercom in a feminine squeak. "Christopher Hartley and Ashley Brown to the frost desk. Thank you."

"Whelp, that's us." Ashley slapped his leg playfully and stood up. Chris followed her down the isle until they were back where they started. However, it was a different nurse there to greet them this time around. She was a young woman—no older than twenty-two—and her smile was much more welcoming than the scowl on the other nurse.

"What happened to Rebekah?" Ashley asked to Chris' distaste.

"Rebekah went home," explained the new nurse simply. "Now," she was already standing, a clipboard in her hand, "if you'll follow me though this first door, I'll take you to the ICU waiting room. Once there, all you have to do is use the intercom when you're ready to see Mrs. Isabella. Another nurse will come and take you to her room."

"Thank you," Chris said. He glanced over at Ashley who was a few feet behind and motioned for her to follow him as he followed the nurse. The door was locked via a card scanner; it was an efficient way to keep everyone contained within the appropriate bounds. All a staff member had to do was swipe over the scanner with the identification card around their neck.

The journey to the ICU waiting room took them several minutes. There were so many hallways and branching corridors that it was easy to get lost. Of course, there was always a nurse around every corner in case that did happen; so, it wasn't getting lost which made Ashley uncomfortable—it was everything else: the cold temperature, moans echoing from inside different rooms, unpaid interns scrambling around and trying to keep up with the doctors, and so many other horrible events.

It was a big relief when she, Chris, and the nurse finally arrived to the much smaller and less populated waiting room. But, like Ashley expected, there arose a tension between her and Tina. The two women glared at each other from across the room; in fact, it was so awkward that even the nurse left as quickly as she could.

"Christopher!" erupted his father's friendly voice. He approached them. "How are you, son?" The older man was soft spoken and kind—something that Ashley adored about Gregory (that was his name.) "And here me and your mother thought you weren't going to be able to make it." He patted Chris' shoulder like any proud father would pat his son, and carried his well-mannered self over to Ashley. "I'm glad you could make it too, Ashley. You've always been there for our boy, and I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart."

"You're too kind." She blushed, noticing that his blue eyes were the exact same shape and color as Chris'. "He's been there for me just as much as I've been there for him." Lightly touching her boyfriend's hand, she smiled. "And there's no one else I'd ever want to be with."

Tina remained sitting with an evident scowl on her face. Chris, noticing such behavior, made his way to his mother's side. Ashley and Greg continued to talk to one another almost as if they were best of friends. "Mom," he began seriously, "can you please—at least while we're here—not provoke Ashley. I know you dislike her, but I'm asking, as your son, to respect my request."

The scowl on her face evaporated instantly once she came to terms with what Chris was asking. "Oh, I'm sorry, Chris. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable—but I need to ask you: why did you bring her here?" She talked quietly so that Ashley wouldn't hear from across the room.

Chris, dumbfounded, shook his head. "Because she's my girlfriend," he answered as restrictively as he could. "And because I wasn't going to leave her at home by herself. You know she doesn't like being alone." The redness forming around his cheeks began to show. "Now, are you going to promise me that you won't get in an argument with her?"

Tina nodded. "I promise."

It wasn't but a few minutes after that everyone's emotions died down. Gregory and Tina explained to Chris and Ashley that his grandmother was in a pretty bad state. The doctors had decided to hook her up to a breathing machine the day before, stressing the fact that only two visitors were allowed in at a time. Isabella was sixty-three and was known for her poor health. It still remained elusive how exactly she contracted the pneumonia, but, according to scans, it could be concluded that it was due to a bacterial infection. Nasty though it was, Chris needed to keep himself thinking positively, otherwise he would be overwhelmed by the pulsating veins of dejection.

As previously mentioned by the nurse, they needed only press the button hooked to the intercom in order to be received by another staff member. Chris did as instructed, and within minutes a woman wearing a white coat stepped into the room. She was tall and slim, harboring a healthy white smile on her pleasant, blue-eyed face.

During this time, nobody but Ashley and Chris' family were in the waiting room; so it made it quite easy for the head nurse to pick the apples from the tree. "Are you Christopher Hartley and Ashley Brown?" she asked anyways out of pure habit.

"Yes, ma'am," Chris replied, "we are."

"Wonderful. If you would please follow me, I'll take you back to see your grandmother. I'm sure Mrs. Isabella will be glad that you're visiting her." Noticing Tina and Gregory, the head nurse simply signaled them with a nod, saying: "If you're hungry Mr. and Mrs. Hartley, I can have someone bring you something from the lunchroom."

"Oh, don't worry about us, dear," was what Tina said. "We're fine for right now."

* * *

Chris wasn't sure what he was expecting—something depressing perhaps—but seeing his grandmother hooked up to machines, her breathing weak and shallow, was almost too much for him to process. He sat by her side and held her cold hand. He counted her inhales, counted her exhales—they were frighteningly short and always ended in a wheeze.

Ashley remained in the background with her back against the wall. She watched her boyfriend's head dip downward in a hopeless kind of way. "Chris," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder, "are you okay?"

He simply listened to the beeps coming from the heart monitor; they were stable, but he worried that could change at any moment. It made him so uneasy that he didn't sense Ashley's lingering presence until he felt her hand on him. Her question he then answered with frozen hostility. "I'm fine." He pulled away from her grasp. "You don't need to worry about me."

Ashley frowned. "Chris," she paused, "we both know you're angry about this whole situation, but it's not your fault." When he refused to answer, she glazed over his arm with her finger. She bent down and outstretched herself so that he only saw her. "Talk to me, Chris," she said, "what are you feeling right now? Whatever it is, I'm sure we can work through it together." Their eyes locked. "I promise you that everything will be okay."

Breaking through his defenses were nearly impossible; however, Ashley managed to do it quite easily. What would take somebody weeks to get one word out of him, she got within a few minutes.

"I'm scared," he answered. It was becoming more and more clear that he was extremely uncomfortable talking about his feelings—it was something he often avoided; but now he felt there was nowhere left to run. He repeated himself, but this time said it with a child's somberness. "I'm scared. Scared of the future, scared of the past, scared for what's in store for us . . . Damn it, Ash."

Ashley was unsure about many things: unsure of what laid ahead, unsure of whether or not she'd be the same person down the road, etc. However, there was one thing she _was_ sure about. And watching the tears fall from his face only solidified her sureness. She loved Chris with all her heart; and, for the first time in a long time, she believed he felt the same way.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading!**


	9. Chapter 6 Part 1

**Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Shattered Minds**

 **Chapter 6 Part 1**

 _ **November 19**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Friday**_

 _ **6:00 am**_

 _ **Sergeant Jeffery Hancock**_

 _ **Near the mines of Mount Washington…**_

Dawn arrived and brought a small ray of warmness with it. The raging blizzard outside had succumbed to the pleasantries of a clear morning. Everything from the wild life to the swollen streams were stilled. Hancock awoke and was met only by silence—a silence that he found rather suspicious. The sheet he had wrapped himself in did its job, though the moistness from the ground bled through the fabric, and he suffered from a horrible itchiness on his forearm. The spot was a few inches below the elbow; it was dry like sandpaper and red as if a mosquito had dined on his blood.

"That's what I get for sleeping on the ground," he mumbled humorously to himself. There wasn't anything for him to pack, so he left the shack as quickly as he could. The taste of blood lingered in his mouth, and he suddenly felt the urge to cough. What followed was him harking up yellow mucus and spitting it out onto the snow; he then felt a clutch take hold inside his chest—a tightness that made it hard to breath. "Damn it," he strained, his throat aching as well. Leaning over, he coughed some more, though this time it yielded no effect; his mouth was so dry even swallowing hurt.

There was only one thing to do.

The snow that he had once complained about to Johnson was now going to be his savior. Hancock squatted down, shoveled his hands into the whiteness, and slowly brought it to his mouth. His lips were attracted to the frozen water as if it was a crystallized magnet. Without a second thought, he bit into the chunk of snow and immediately felt relief inside his swollen throat; and once he regained his footing, he continued onward.

Six o'clock soon turned to seven o'clock—and seven o'clock to eight o'clock. Two hours and yet all he had to show for it were his aching bones. The winter wonderland that surrounded him was more of a horror maze than a journey through the bright unknown—cold, barren, and deadly. He knew the longer he remained outside, the more likely he was to catch pneumonia; or, in some cases, run into a brown bear—either of which were dangerous.

All that was helping him to stay at an appropriate body temperature was the sun breaking through the clouds and his clothes; however, he knew that they would only work for so long; and he either needed to find a trail that led to civilization or locate another shelter. He was thankful that only a light drizzle of snow fell from the sky—snow that came without a painful gust. It made traversing through the rough landscape possible.

By now he could feel the snow as it molded its way into his boots and socks. He jumped over several streams within a fifteen minute time span; his toes wouldn't stop throbbing, and he began thinking that they might turn into stubby little icicles. If it wasn't for the fear of losing his feet, he would've already taken off his socks; he despised the feeling of them clinging to his skin as he walked.

 _Crunch. Crunch. Crunch._ With every step came a sound—either the sound of marching on leaves, the sound of walking through a puddle, even the sound of snapping a twig. It was both the melodic pattern and rhythm of man meeting nature—something Hancock could honestly use less of. He tried finding something positive about his situation, but there existed not a single speck of it anywhere. No. Nothing was worse than this—he would've preferred dying in the mines as oppose to freezing to death. The image of his lifeless body lying in the snow: his fingers blue, his eyes open, his body stiff . . . it created a queasy sensation in his stomach, and he quickly pushed the thoughts aside, yet remained haunted by them for the next hour. And once those thoughts ended, new ones formed: what happened to Johnson?

Hancock experienced a great amount of guilt. He was so concerned about himself that his partner's disappearance hardly crossed his mind. Something, he still didn't know what, had dragged him deeper into the mine. How deep? There wasn't any telling. _What could I possibly have done?_ he asked himself several times. _N_ _othing,_ was what he told himself, but he continued criticizing his actions. _Why didn't you follow after them when you had the chance. Coward. You're a fucking coward. What are you going to tell his wife? He's dead because of you. It's your fault._ It was maddening!

"Get yourself together, Hancock," he spoke silently to himself. The snow at his feet began thinning all around him, eventually leading upon a large sign. It used two wooden beams as support, had a frame carved out of oak, and was chipped around the edges. A light layer of snow kept Hancock from seeing what it said. He dusted off what he could and read the following: _Blackwood Sanatorium, one mile._

"Oh, shit." Hancock wasn't expecting to be so close to the sanatorium. According to reports, a portion of the building was burned down, though he had yet to see it for himself. To his left was the road, it was hidden beneath the snow, but he knew it was there. This meant he was on the right track, another few miles south and he would find the express way; that meant he would have to pass by the sanatorium. At first the idea frightened him—abandoned insane asylums weren't what he considered the better part of a Friday night—but, after consideration, there were only two plausible options: follow the road south or continue east; either way would eventually lead to the express way, but journeying south would be a lot quicker. Figuring this, Hancock decided that he would simply have to chance going southward.

 _One mile,_ he repeated in his head. _That's not far at all. I might rest while I'm there._ The painful throb in his calves convinced him. After all, it was abandoned for a reason—nobody lived there, so he hadn't any need to feel paranoid.

He ventured down the road, his body sore from all the walking. The wind started picking up again, and it made breathing difficult. The first five minutes were the most difficult—for that was when the snow was deepest. Whereas the next ten minutes were easily crossed without much effort. Eventually, he noticed the locked gate of the sanatorium in the distance.

It was behemoth in size—at least fifteen feet tall—and was rusted to the core. As Hancock approached, he could see the gloomy shape of the building lingering beyond it. The metal was as cold as ice, and he felt his hands blister. The grating was solid, and Hancock tried many times to push it open, only managing to shake it back and forth. "C'mon," he growled between his teeth. Using his entire body, he rammed his shoulder into the gate; he heard a creak but nothing more.

Everything within his better nature told him to turn around and go the opposite way; however, he couldn't escape the fact that something interested him about the sanatorium: what secrets did it hold behind those slowly eroding walls? The road he'd been following previously had split off into three directions. One way went west—which was out of the question—while the second way went east. Hancock needed to head south, and that meant he would have to get past the fence somehow.

Taking a few steps back, he thoroughly examined the gate for several minutes. The thought of simply walking around entered his mind, but the chances of finding a large enough spot to squeeze through was unlikely. He continued to come up with ideas, eventually figuring that he could attempt to climb up the left side—there was a small incline that he could use to his advantage. Hancock hurried over there; but after realizing he needed to get a head start, he took a dozen paces back. _Here goes nothing . . ._

He then ran forward as fast as he could. _Thud, thud, thud—_ went the rhythm of his feet. His mind was focused on only one thing: and that was jumping high enough to grab on to the side of the fence. One leg after the other, his stride was perfect—or so it felt like. The point of success or failure was approaching. With a deep breath, his thoughts flashing for only a second in terror, and with nothing short of a gasp, he leaped. The ground beneath him disappeared, and he could literally feel himself fly through the air. It was stomach churning yet exciting at the exact same time—it must've been the high that basketball players experienced.

What was a slight incline turned out to be a giant hill. Near the end of his momentum, Hancock reached out his arms and wrapped his hands around the top. He used every ounce of his strength to tighten his grip; his body swung back and forth as he hung there. "Fuck," he grunted as he began pulling himself up. The metal was cold and slick; and he had a hard time getting his left leg over. "Come on, Hancock," he encouraged himself. "You can do this." Yelping, he launched his leg over, followed by the next; and soon he found himself on the other side.

He extended his arms and then dropped down. It was good to be back on the ground. Breathing heavily, he looked upwards and was impressed with himself for getting over such a high obstacle. _Not bad for an old man—_ that's what his father would've told him at least. Though his back was definitely going to suffer for it come the morning. But that was for another time. What mattered now was the sanitorium and whether or not he would rest there.

The journey had been a long one, and his whole body ached. He followed the steps leading up to the front, and he eventually neared the entrance. It was one large door—one that appeared to be locked. It reminded him of an old haunted house, with the howling wind only adding to its frightening demeanor. All the trees surrounding it had withered, their leaves left to dry beneath the snow. A small fountain resided in the center of the yard; it was empty, and the stone frame was starting to erode. It wasn't the friendliest of places that was for sure; and it wasn't a surprise that his mind wondered about the location's history. He'd read about Blackwood Pines in his office about a year ago, but most of the information was forgotten—though he did remember that the sanatorium treated many of the mentally ill miners who worked on the mountain, an origin that was as obscure as it was creepy.

He took a moment to gather himself and sat on one of the steps. The snow didn't bother him—he was just glad to be resting. Everything hurt: his head, his chest, his legs, even his ears. The sun was high in the sky; however, the day was clogged by the foreboding clouds. It was much darker than it had any right to be, and Hancock felt a shudder as the wind blew across his face. Once again there came a moment of incredible thirst; he shoveled up what snow he could and bit into it. The refreshing coolness was most welcomed; afterwards, Hancock stood back up.

Heading south meant that he had to somehow get past the sanatorium, though he longed for a stable roof above his head. Entering on the basis of getting out of the cold was a tempting offer; but a tidal wave of doubt came crashing down on him. _It might not be a good idea,_ said the voice in his head. The silence that followed was one of careful contemplation. Maybe, he thought, he could enter the sanatorium and locate a back exit that he could use—it would definitely be the easiest way of getting around.

It wasn't long after the suggestion was made that he began hearing wolves howl. Hancock turned around immediately, but didn't see a single beast. Their mournful cries only grew louder. The idea of going inside was seeming more like the best idea. He then pushed open the giant door with one loud: "Oof." The sound of it grinding over the floor bled into his ears; it was a screech that was nearly unbearable.

Upon stepping inside, Hancock was welcomed by a putrid odor of decaying rat corpses. He noticed that the walls were beginning to crumble away into dust. All the windows had been busted; and the place was about as dull and lifeless as the grave. Not a single sound could be heard from within; doors were torn from their hinges; the pictures at his feet were ripped and wet with a slimy substance; cobwebs stained every corner. He only had to walk a couple of meters before he noticed the shattered glass crunching beneath his boots; if he wasn't careful, he could easily hurt himself.

Hancock slowly peered over turned desks, studied the imagery that had been destroyed by years of neglect, and walked through several small rooms, searching and finding nothing. It was only slightly dark because the light from outside kept most of the building lit. He continued exploring deeper into the interior; his heart raced and his mind felt bogged down; and he soon stumbled upon some writing on the wall:

 _Death comes for us all. Men who dine on the flesh of others shall be cursed._

What did it mean? Hancock wondered. It was written with a black substance; chalk? No. It was too thick and dry. Taking several steps closer to the writing, he studied the letters, outlining them with his finger. "It's—it's blood. Shit, shit, shit!" He drew his hand back immediately and stepped back five paces. _Blood? What the hell is going on here?_

Tucked away in the corner he noticed two items: a crowbar and a fire-ax. They appeared to have been strategically placed there by someone else. Hancock bent over and picked them up. The crowbar itself was rusted but still useful; the ax on the other hand was coming undone. One swing and the handle would snap in two. Weighing his options, Hancock dropped the ax and equipped himself with the crowbar. If only he hadn't lost his pistol in the mines . . .

Those creatures were still out there. He needed to be prepared in case he ran into them again. "Damn it, Johnson," he grumbled, "I hope you're okay." His partner was a fighter, but he wondered if simply being a fighter would be enough in this case. If the blood on the wall was anything to go by: no, it wasn't. He shivered at the thought.

Once he'd gathered what he needed, he began making his way across the lobby and to the closed door on the other side. He worried that it might've been locked, but was relieved when he heard a satisfying click as he turned the handle. The door itself was metal and weighed a ton. Hancock used all his might to push it open, the bottom skidding along the concrete floor in a piercing screech, and he soon found himself at the end of a long hallway.

He was frightened by the dark path at first; but he slowly came to terms with what he had to do. The walls were grated, separated by open windows; rust dripped from the roof. A grinding sound arose from the opposite end. It was loud and dizzying. Accompanying the noise were blinking red lights. Hancock, feeling a horrified urge, sprinted down the hallway; his breathing was stifled by the never ending siren that imitated someone being sawed in half.

Everything around him seemed to go on forever. He came to a sudden halt and began looking around. The room he was in was very large and open—not much in the way of objects. A rope dangled from the ceiling, and he noticed a few barrels. Tipping one over, he realized that they were filled with oil—the horrible stink gave it away. Red lighting colored the walls and floor, highlighting what was on the ground: glass, more rope, and spilled oil. It all seemed so sinister.

With the crowbar firmly in his hands, he carried forth into the next room. It was smaller than the last, but the red lighting had intensified. Cages were lined up against the wall: each one contained a dozen rat corpses and excrement. Pieces of straw littered the floor. _I wonder what they used the cages for . . ._

Surely, he was nearing an exit by now. The next rooms were all the same: blood red lighting, more rat corpses and excrement, abandoned beds, and the ever protruding grinding sound that, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out where it was coming from; it was the one thing that bothered him more than anything else. It was mysterious and haunting.

The longer he lingered inside the sanatorium, the more he felt that something was watching him. Its breath foul, and its teeth sharp. Not long after did his imagination turn into paranoia. He began looking around every corridor, every inch, as if he was waiting for something to jump out. Thinking back to the mines, he pictured Johnson's throat being ripped open by razor sharp claws, his flesh dined on—at least that's what he imagined happened to him. He remembered the two creatures and how they sounded.

 _Don't dwell on that, Hancock._ Decidedly, he went with his gut instinct, which was: getting the hell out of there as soon as possible. The end had to be in sight. Room after room he searched for an exit; however, with every room came more decayed rats and red lighting. "God damn it," he slammed his fist against the wall. "It's the mines all over again."

The rattling sent a shiver up his spine. Sweat ate away at the pores of his face; and it was then Hancock realized that he was hopelessly lost. All the rooms looked the same. He knew he was within the inner sanctum; but how deep into it? He hadn't a single clue. Exhausted, he used his shirt to wipe away the water building up in his eyes. Was he crying? "Fuck," he sniffed. "Get a hold of yourself."

Nearby, a scratching sound could be heard—it was as if someone was dragging something on the floor or digging their nails into the walls. Hancock, not sure what it was, trailed after the noise carefully. His knees were slightly bent and he walked at a snail's pace. What he saw around the corner was so gruesome that he almost puked.

Headless bodies were dangling in mid air, their torsos attached to giant meat-hooks. The lifeless forms rocked back and forth with skin dried and flaky—obviously, they'd been there for a long time. There wasn't much of a stench, but that hardly mattered. Hancock, unable to find his breath, approached the body nearest to him. It was a female. Her ribs were smashed in, her fingers chewed on, and white bones protruded from the flesh. The exact cause of death was unknown, but decapitation was likely. Was this Johnson's fate as well?

Hancock had seen many disturbing scenes as an officer and detective: mutilated bodies among them; but there was something different about these. Something, perhaps, supernatural. The joints in the neck appeared not be cut through with a knife, but something sharper. And pieces of limbs were bitten off. Cannibals? It would explain the meat-hooks—it could even explain the grinding sound. Was he intruding on their supper? For the past hour, he'd felt that somebody was following him—maybe, they were. They must've knew he'd stumble across the bodies eventually . . . All sorts of theories clouded his mind, distracting him from the immediate threat: the Wendigos. He had indeed trespassed, but not on a group of cannibals like he thought. No. He had trespassed the monsters' lair.

The creatures had moved from the mines to the sanatorium. How many of them? At least three, though Hancock hadn't the slightest clue at the time—he still wasn't one hundred percent sure what happened to Johnson. He believed himself to be guilty of abandoning his close friend and partner. And looking at the bodies before him only intensified his negative feelings.

Escaping the room was his top priority. He briskly walked from one side to the other, maintaining a low center of gravity, keeping his eyes leveled. If he glanced up for even a second, he'd be met by the bodies, and he couldn't stand to look at them any longer than what he had to. _Focus, Hancock,_ spoke the voice in his head. _You can make it out of this._

Water dripped from the ceiling. Wait. No. It wasn't water. Hancock squatted down to study the liquid. It was green and smelled worse than death. His thoughts immediately flashed back to the mines—when he and Johnson first heard the screech. The pipes above him were rusted and broken in half at the center. It allowed the substance to run down freely and stain the walls. The crowbar remained firmly planted in his hands; and, once he was finished studying the green goo, he approached the door in the corner. Laying on his stomach, Hancock peered through the bottom crack. All he could see on the other side was a giant fan, some more metal grating, and what looked to be the beginning of another hallway.

Standing, he tried pushing the door open four times. When that didn't work he used the crowbar. He wedged it into the small sliver between the two points, applied pressure, and then, with great force, broke the lock in half. The door opened slightly afterwards, and he finished the job with one final pull. And upon entering the room, Hancock felt a chilly breeze blow across his face and through his hair. That could mean only one thing: he was nearing an exit.

There was hope at least.

The draft poured in from the north. It was a sweeping gust of ice cold November air. Hancock managed only a few steps before shuttering. From somewhere below him, in between the grates, he heard one of those ear piercing shrieks. Following it was a rumble—something was moving around a few floors beneath. It didn't sound human; and the shriek was a truly realized horror movie trope. His limbs froze in place, and terror consumed him. Then came a pause. A silence. He needed to escape.

Without hesitation, he began running. He wasn't sure where he was going; however, the only thing that mattered to him at that moment was not getting caught by whatever that thing was. Johnson's fate wasn't something Hancock wanted to share. As he peered around the corner, he came upon another door. This one was larger than the others with a glass window one could see through. _No time,_ he thought, busting out the window. He reached over and unlocked it, but then: _"EEAK!"_ This time the shriek was closer. In fact, it sounded as if it was on the same level as him now.

He swung the door open and quickly made his way down another hallway. When he came to a crossroads, he followed the breeze. Everything around him was beginning to mush together. Dizziness enveloped him, but he marched on. It was then that he finally saw the light of day: an exit sign, all cracked and broken, but still readable. Right. He needed to go right.

He rushed to the door that led back outside. He grabbed the door knob, twisted it, but again found that it was locked. No problem. It too had a glass window, and he could see the snow covered landscape before him. Using the crowbar for the third time, he took out the window—the glass exploded into thousands of shards—and pushed hard the door. Swinging it open with such great force, he nearly ripped it out of its hinges. He stepped into the sunlight and a wave of relief rolled over him.

Tasting the snow with his mouth as it fell, Hancock knew that the journey wasn't over. At the other end of the backyard, there was one final obstacle: a gate. Unlike the first gate, this one was wired with electrical barbs. He carefully made his way down a row of steps layered over with ice and hurried down the concrete walkway. Arriving to the fence, he noticed that it wasn't quite as high as the other one; however, there wasn't a steep incline to help him get over it this time.

 _That could be a problem . . ._ And let's not forget the electrical reinforcement. Most of the sanatorium had been lights out, so he pondered if the fence was turned off too. _Only one way to find out._ He lightly traced his index finger along the wires and jerked it back instantly. Then he did it again for a second and third time. _Phew._ Sighing, he tossed the crowbar on the ground, no longer needing it. The next several minutes he spent stretching and preparing for the climb. Beyond the gate he could make out a trail: one that appeared to have been man created. He figured this final trail would lead him to a road or possibly the express way.

Once he was fully prepared and stretched out, Hancock stepped back ten paces. Just one more obstacle. He could do this. He could definitely do this. His plan for climbing it was the following: get a good running start and use his foot as a spring off the fence, if he got enough air on his jump then he'd be able to grab the top. Inhaling then exhaling slowly, he remembered his time in the military—all those walls he had to climb over. It was finally coming in handy. Though he was getting up there in age—thirty seven—he still maintained a youthful body, one that could endure hardships. He counted down from three; and once he hit one, he bolted forward. Within seconds he was at the fence, he leaped as high as he could, and when his foot touched the fence, he used all of his momentum to propel himself higher. He reached out with his hands and latched on to what he was aiming for. He dared not look down; and instead pulled his body over, followed then by each leg.

He dropped down and breathed. Popping his fingers, he turned toward the trail, looked through the trees, catching a flew glimpses of birds, and started walking without ever glancing back at the sanatorium. That place was better left forgotten. However, he still planned to report everything he saw and witnessed. And, when the time was right, he'd return for Johnson; but with backup. It was far too dangerous for him to venture alone. He only hoped Johnson could survive until then; but if not, then retrieving his body would be a must.

The trail lasted for half an hour; and within that time, he had crossed over three streams and one bridge. It wasn't until his journey's end did the path break apart and form into that of the destroyed lodge's front gate. His police car was still parked underneath the tree where he left it. He dusted all the snow that he could off of the hood and front window and got in. The leathery smell of the seats was a most welcomed sensation. The steering wheel was so cold that it might as well have been iced over. What luck it was that the trail led him here of all places. The cruiser roared like a dormant bear after hibernation. All the lights came on at the same time, and he put the vehicle into reverse.

* * *

Hancock stumbled into the sheriff department without a word. The front desk was three people too crowded. They all looked up from the single computer screen and saw their friend as he limped his way inside. His car was still running in the background, its blue and red lights silently blinking.

"Hancock!" said the officer named Kendrick. The man's eyes were wide open, and his lips remained shut without the words to say. "What—what happened? Where's Johnson?"

Jeffery tried to speak, but was so weak that he crumbled to the floor. All three of the officers rushed to his side and helped him up.

"You're freezing!" said one. Hancock was then wrapped inside a warm jacket.

"I'll get you a coffee," said the other, leaving them to go to the kitchen.

"Johnson, he's in the mine." Hancock's voice was so raspy that they couldn't understand what he saying. "Johnson…" he repeated. They laid him down on the couch in the lounge. He was given his cup of coffee, but he wasn't quite ready for it. Kendrick placed the mug on the table across from them.

"Shira," he then said to the female officer. "Go see if we have any blankets. He needs to rest."

"On it," she answered and went out of the room. Her return was most appreciated by Hancock, even though he couldn't speak, so he weakly smiled instead.

The heat given off by the cover was rejuvenating. It was only now that he realized how exhausted and sore he truly was. Every inch of him ached as if he'd been ran over. Groaning, he moved his shoulder a little, getting into a more comfortable position on the couch. The other officers were sitting in their own chairs, not saying a word, afraid that if they said something it would be too much for Hancock to handle; and so they remained silent.

Kendrick was flipping through a magazine, glancing to and from the page at Shira who sat to the left of him. "We're gonna have to report this," he said to her—in the background Hancock continued to growl in pain. "Something obviously isn't right. I don't even know where Johnson is."

Shira nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. "We'll send out a rescue team tomorrow—that's all we can really do. Hopefully, Hancock will be ready by then and explain everything."

"Are you sure we shouldn't take him to the hospital?" asked the third and youngest of the group. His name was Jason, and he had only recent got out of the academy. "He looks _really_ bad. Are you sure nothing's broken?"

"Hancock's tougher than he looks," Kendrick spoke out of personal experience. They'd been working together for years, ever since they graduated from the academy. "Give 'im some time and some sleep and he'll be fit for duty come tomorrow afternoon."

"I hope you're right…" Jason stopped talking and gave the now sleeping man a compassionate look. It was his tender heart that made him feel sorry for Jeffery. _He must've went through hell_ , he thought to himself. He glanced over at Shira who also appeared to be shaken up by the incident. "Hey," Jason touched her arm, and she flinched, "don't worry. I'm sure everything will be fine."

"I know Hancock will be fine," she replied, her brown eyes saturated with intense emotion. "That isn't what's worrying me."

"What do you mean?" Jason asked, crossing his arms and leaning over in earnest.

"I mean," she began anxiously, "what am I supposed to tell Jackie? That her husband has gone missing good? Dear lord, the poor dear. She's been calling all day asking about him."

"What did you tell her?"

"What do you think?" Shira slightly frowned. "I told her the truth: that he and Hancock hadn't returned from Blackwood Pines."

"Are the two of you close?" Jason could hear the hurt in her tone, so he asked out of curiosity.

"Me and Jackie?"

He nodded.

Shira breathed in and sighed. "That's a long story." The expression on her face was one of deep reminiscence: with both eyebrows furled and her mouth uncurled. "The short version is that we've known each other since high school. Talk about bygone days…" There was a small part of her longing to tell the stories of her teenage years, to relive her rebellious misadventures as a troublemaker. Jason seemed like the kind of guy who would listen, but she withheld herself anyways.

Jason leaned over the short table and sipped on his cup some more. The coffee itself was warm and creamy, nearly as sweet as hot chocolate—which, by the way, they also had prepared in the kitchen. He then took a moment to scope out the room. It was empty other than himself, Shira, and a snoring Hancock. "Where did Kendrick get off to?"

"I think he went to file a report on Hancock and Johnson. I know Dan was planning on sending out a team to go and look for them tomorrow morning. Kendrick's probably giving him a call right now."

"What do you think happened?" Jason's expression quivered for only a second. "I couldn't understand what Jeffery was trying to say. I'm kinda worried."

"Me too." Shira looked down at her wrist watch. "We'll see if we can get to the bottom of this tomorrow. It's almost eleven."

"Wow," he rubbed his temples, "that late already? What time are you staying till?"

"I'm pulling an all-nighter."

Jason finished his remaining coffee and stood up. "Well, there's worse things in life." Stretching out his back, he said: "I'll be at the front desk if you need me for anything."

Shira nodded. "That sounds good. I'll stay in here with Sleeping Beauty."

They separated and Jason was back to doing busy work on the computer. There hadn't been any emergency calls since Hancock's unexpected arrival; however, that could change within the blink of an eye. Jason almost felt too anxious as a result of waiting to pick up the phone. His fingers drummed on the circular desk, typed quickly on the keyboard, and his eyes surfed around the room. Standing up, he journeyed over to the glass door several meters away from him and peered outside.

The old department was stationed directly beside the express way—about a three hour drive from Mount Washington. It was built along the outer outline of a thick forest. The treeline was visibly seen behind the building, almost as it was slowly creeping forward, ready to devour all the roads and signs. And James simply stood there taking it all in.

Bright headlights broke through the misty fog that was beginning to form. A slight sprinkle of rain tapped on the glass windows outside the front office. He shuffled comfortably from one side of the room to the other, his stare gazing and reflective.

Jason thought about his girlfriend, Amy, who was spending her fall vacation at his place. She was a year older than he was and owned a house in Winston, which was about eight hours from where he lived. They had met each other back in 2014 through a mutual relationship: a woman named Hannah Mcduffie—who was Jason's cousin and Amy's best friend.

Their first date was on September 20th the same year. Amy had talked about wanting to go see the new movie: _The Maze Runner._ So, Jason, who really wanted to show her a good time, bought them tickets for the nine o'clock show at the local theater. He could still remember how cold it was that night and how she bundled up close to him. After the movie, they enjoyed a small dinner at a restaurant—Pastel's Pasta Palace was the name. They both ordered the same thing: spaghetti. The whole occasion was delightful. Jason learned that she was a therapist who worked with young teens, and that she had two children: a boy named Max, and a girl named Sarah. Her ex-husband's name was David; and it was public knowledge that they divorced due to him having an affair with another woman.

"It's been real tough these last two years," she told him as they ate. "I haven't really been on many dates since the divorce. My only hope is that David will at least serve as a good father figure to Max and Sarah."

"When do I get to meet them?" he asked.

She cradled her glass of wine and smiled. "Soon. I'm sure they'll be glad to meet you."

And he did meet them. Many times. And it was wonderful. Very wonderful. Max was nearing the end of the third grade, and Sarah was just about to start Kindergarten. It was a happening time for not only Jason, who had recently graduated from the police academy, but for Amy as well. She had been graced with a brand new office, one that she no longer had to share. The only down side was that some of her old clients were left behind—mainly because they didn't want to go through the hassle of finding her new place—but the gaps were quickly filled within days.

Their careers took up the majority of their time, so they hardly ever saw each other. They mostly met during holidays, namely Christmas. However, sometimes Amy would go on her yearly vacations and visit Jason, just as she was doing right now. But because of his work as a cop, she mainly spent the time by herself alone at his house, waiting for him to come home. He usually brought her flowers or something else nice whenever he returned. They would then cuddle or share a kiss, enjoying every moment they had together.

As much as he enjoyed dwelling on such pleasant memories, Jason knew that distracting himself could lead him to missing a call or something important. He filled up his cup with more coffee and sat back down behind the desk. Other than the computer monitor, there was a stack of papers. He wasn't sure what they were for, since Kendrick left them there without saying why.

The time was a quarter until twelve, and already he could feel the black circles form around his green eyes. A slight throbbing filled the right side of his head. He sipped on his coffee in hopes that the caffeine would combat the tiredness. He had answered one call within ten minutes: the usual sighting of Bigfoot in the forest. Something easily discarded as a prank and nothing severe enough to send a unit out to investigate.

The Ionia Sheriff Department/Office was a branch off of the Edmonton Department. It was underfunded and mostly forgotten by all the other branches. The sheriff in charge was a man by the name of Dan Phelps, and his deputy was one Austin Phillips. Johnson and Hancock had been working under them for almost a whole year now. Both men had been moved from Edmonton to the more quiet town of Ionia—mostly because it was the closest location to Mount Washington. Neither saw much of a problem with it, at least until they saw how poorly the department was managed. You couldn't really blame Dan for everything; it wasn't his fault they were given a shitty budget.

Shira appeared from the doorway. "Come on," she said, "it's time to switch. You watch over Hancock, and I'll manage the front."

"I never agreed to that."

"Too bad. Get moving."

Reluctantly, Jason followed her orders on the account that he wasn't in the mood to argue. He entered the room where Hancock lay sleeping and sat down on one of the cushioned chairs. His phone was in his pocket, so he quickly decided to text Amy.

 _Jason: What you doing?_

 _Amy: Fixing something to drink and watching a movie. What are you doing?_

 _Jason: Watching someone sleep._

 _Amy: Huh?_

 _Jason: It's a long story._

 _Amy: I bet. Lol. What time are you getting off?_

 _Jason: Probably close to three. Will you still be up by then?_

 _Amy: Maybe… If you promise to buy me some more flowers. My other ones are starting to die._

 _Jason: Will Walmart flowers do?_

 _Amy: I guess._

They ended their conversation with: "I love you," and, "I love you too." It was around this time that the annoying throbbing in his head had turned into a small migraine. "Oh my God," he pouted, banging his forehead with his palm angrily. He stood up and fuzzily looked around the room. _I wonder if Shira has anything I can take._ He left the room and returned with two pills of Ibuprofen. His coffee cup was on the table, and after tossing the medicine into his mouth, he enjoyed what little remained.

An hour later and Hancock shot up with a jolt. Frantically, he looked around the room. "Where the hell am I?" he asked. "Ah, man," he groaned, lightly touching his forehead, "my fucking head is busting."

Jason remained silent for a second, allowing Hancock to gather himself before delving into a conversation. "Take it easy," he said as he stood up. He placed his hand on the confused man's shoulder. "You're at the sheriff's office. Me, Shira, and Kendrick brought you inside when you collapsed on the floor." He let go and went into the kitchen, bringing back a cup of joe with him.

Hancock accepted Jason's gesture gratefully. "Thanks," he said, coughing into his fist. The steam from the coffee calmed the incessant throbbing in the center of his brain. He glanced up for only a second and saw Jason as he sat there, shuffling through a magazine.

"If I was you," he began, his eyes scanning over several pages, "I'd go back to sleep. Shira and Kendrick already have you pinned for questioning tomorrow morning."

Hancock grasped at the cover beside himself and wrapped it around his body. He allowed a moment of reflective silence between them. "How long have I been out?"

"A little more than two hours—not that long considering the hell you must've gone through."

"I'm having a tough time remembering it." Hancock let out a weak chuckle. He then thought back to what had occurred: the mines, the humanoid beings, Johnson's screams as he was dragged off to God knows where, the sanatorium . . . Everything felt so surreal, like it was just some horrible nightmare.

"Well, whatever you do," Jason warned, "don't stress yourself. You've taken one hell of a beating."

"Tell me about it." He placed his hand on his rib-cage and groaned some more as he adjusted himself to a more upright position. The coffee only helped a little with his headache, and it felt like a bomb had gone off inside his stomach. "I think I'm gonna be sick." His face turned a deep shade of red.

Jason rushed to grab a trashcan and returned to the sick man's side right on time. As Hancock blew chunks, there was something happening outside the lounge. Kendrick and Shira were arguing about something at the front desk, though neither Jason or Hancock heard what was being said. They stayed quiet, waiting for the heated discussion to pass over. It ended when Kendrick stormed outside, got into his car, and drove off.

"What the hell is going on out there?" Jason mumbled, and Hancock appeared to be wondering the same thing.

They both leaned over and looked out through the doorway. Shira was pacing back and forth, her lips moving as if she was talking to herself. The expression on her face was mixed with anger and anxiety, which both descriptions could be proved by how she was stomping her feet and biting her nails.

"Should we go and check?" Hancock tried his best to stand up, but his legs collapsed underneath him. Luckily, the couch was there to catch him. "Ouch," he moaned, rubbing his back, "that hurt."

"Gimme a sec," Jason said, walking across the room, "I'll go and see what's up."

Hancock watched him leave. The two began talking, Jason pointed toward the lounge, toward Hancock. Shira's face lightened into a smile. "Hancock!" he heard her say as she hurried into the room. "I'm glad you're up. We were worried about you."

Jason lingered in the background. Hancock knew something was wrong. "Hey, Shira," he began, shying away from any sort of complicated discussion. "How are things?"

"You tell me," she replied. "You and Johnson were the ones who went missing. We were planning to send a team out to try and find you. Speaking of which," she paused, "what happened to Johnson?"

"The mines," Hancock spoke upon remembering his friend. "He's in the mines."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

His throat went dry thinking about it. "These things," he continued slowly, "they—they took him. Dragged him off to somewhere. I couldn't save him." Guilty thoughts then began to pour in. _I couldn't save him,_ he repeated in his head.

The frown on Shira's face made it obvious that she still didn't understand. "Hancock you need to slow down." She reached over and touched his arm; he looked up and sighed.

"Okay, okay—you're right." He breathed in and regathered himself. "Johnson and I had pulled up to where the lodge used to be, and we decided to go ahead and check the mines first. It seemed like a normal day." He paused so everything could sink in. "We heard some kind of noise, a scream, perhaps coming from inside. It was like nothing I'd ever heard before. So, we followed it. I don't know why we did—we shouldn't have; we should've called in our report. Damn it . . ." He started to trail off the subject.

"Hancock," Shira snapped him back into reality, "focus, please. What happened next?"

"We entered the mines, not knowing what we might find. Eventually, we came across this green liquid dripping from a few broken pipes. I asked Johnson to hand me a stick so I could touch it and see what exactly it was we were dealing with. Well, it turned out that the slime smelt like death itself. I chocked on its fumes, and it was Johnson who helped me back to my feet." Again, he paused, noticing the concern expression that appeared on Jason's and Shira's faces. "Afterwards, we decided to leave. However, somehow, when we went back the way we came, we ran into a boarded up wall. We were lost." The more he told of the story, the more nervous he sounded. "I went to look for another way when I ran into this mound covered by a blue tarp. Something, I don't know what, told me to lift it and see what was underneath." He stopped talking and lowered his head.

"What did you see?" Shira asked softly. Hancock acted as if he hadn't heard her. She touched his arm for a second time. "Jeff," she spoke sternly yet compassionately, "what did you see?"

They locked eyes. He could feel her digging deep into his mind. "I saw bodies. Dozens. Their flesh ripped from the bone, their insides feasted on . . . Oh my God. It was terrible." His aching head forced him to lay back down on the couch. He tried clearing his mind of the awful images, but he found himself only thinking about them more and more. Without even looking at Jason and Shira, he knew what their faces foretold: utter shock and horror.

"Are you sure that's what you saw?" Jason stepped forward from the doorway and entered the room.

Shira gave him a dark look that seemed to say: "That's the wrong fucking question." She quickly went to Hancock's side as he laid down. "That's enough for now," she said, "you need to go back to sleep. You're exhausted. I—"

Jason interrupted. "You said that Johnson is in the mines…"

"Now's not the time for all these questions," Shira scolded him before he could finish his sentence. She gave him a quick shove and told him to go man the front.

"This is important!" Jason reasoned. "Aren't you one of Jackie's friends? We need to know what happened to her husband."

Frowning, Shira pulled him outside the lounge and whispered: "You don't think I know that? Look at him," she pointed at the sleeping figure, "does he look like he's ready for an interrogation? He could be delusional for all we know."

"You don't think he actually saw dead bodies?" The idea itself was so absurd that Jason had a difficulty time believing it. Then again, Hancock was never one to lie. It must've been some kind of delusion.

"I don't want to rule anything out just yet." She thought quietly to herself for a moment. "If what he said is true . . ." Even saying that much sounded preposterous. "We'll be in deep shit."

"I don't even think that begins to cover it," Jason concurred. He rubbed his temples. "Man, I'll be so glad when I get to go home." Reading the clock above the front desk, it was: 2:05 am. Thoughts about Amy then entered his minds, and he smiled to himself. Thanksgiving was right around the corner, and he couldn't wait to spend it with his family. All he had to do was take it one day at a time.

In Shira's mind, Hancock was a caring and respectable man. So, suffice to say that she was worried about him. She sat at his side as he slept for a long time. He was handsome in his own way, not strikingly attractive, but he didn't have to be. They were around the same age, and they both had been on the police force for an equal number of years. It was a job they took seriously, but as a result their social lives had been ruined. They couldn't even remember the last time they went on a date with someone, though this bothered Shira more than it did Hancock.

She wondered if his story was true or not. A part of her wanted to believe him, but the fact that he had discovered the deceased in the mines was beyond ridiculous. Nobody ever went up there. Serial kills themselves knew better. Out of all the times Hancock had investigated the area, why was it only now such a discovery was made? All these thoughts, however, always led to the same question: what happened to Johnson? They'd know for sure in the morning. Shira only hoped that Hancock would be stable enough to handle an interrogation.

* * *

 _ **November 20**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Saturday**_

 _ **7:00 am**_

 _ **Matt**_

They planned to spend the weekend together, something they hadn't done in a long time. Matt already had the evening mapped out inside his head: wine, music, candlelight, and dinner. Only problem was that Emily was a heavy sleeper. Her career as a fashion designer was something she took seriously; and it resulted in her working every week day with only an hour break thrown in. What little time she did have to spend with Matt was spent sleeping. It was as if they had become total strangers.

He hoped to fix that today.

The grocery store was packed full of people buying food for Thanksgiving. He saw parents on their phones, kids running around the isles, and old people driving their motorized shopping carts. He went from one isle to the next until arriving to the frozen assortment of steaks, chicken, burgers, and other meats. Emily loved a good steak, and Matt made the best. After tossing the package into his cart, he headed to the back of the store where the alcohol was. A large variety of wines, beer, and liquors ran along the shelves, all of which sounded lovely. However, he knew Emily would only be satisfied by a sweet red wine.

He wasn't much of a wine connoisseur—he honestly preferred beer—but he did remember her mention something about Cabernet. So, upon finding the bottle, he immediately inspected the label. Everything seemed to check out okay, but a part of him worried that Emily wouldn't like it. He then spent the next ten minutes sorting through bottles until he picked one that he felt was the best. "Shiraz?" he spoke the name out loud. "Hmm . . . that sounds interesting." He placed the bottle into the cart and carried on through the store

Next up was the silverware: forks, knives, spoons, and glasses. He wanted all of it to be perfect and brand new—two traits that Emily adored. The eating utensils were easy enough to acquire without much thought, but choosing the right wine glasses turned out to be a bigger hassle than he thought. There were two different box sets he couldn't decide on: one was simple and cheap, while the other was more expensive and elegantly ornamented. Emily liked expensive things, so that's what he went with. One hundred dollars wasn't too much anyways.

On the way home, he stopped by the bakery. The smell of freshly cooked bread pleasantly enhanced the warm and inviting atmosphere. Matt knew the owners rather well: Mr. Donald and Mrs. Sonya. It was a great place to have breakfast and chat with friends—sort of like Starbucks but a million times better.

Mr. Donald was at the counter ringing up someone else's order. The man ordering looked to be in his late thirties, wearing blue jeans and a green sweater. For a second, he and Matt exchanged glances, but was interrupted when Donald said: "That'll be twenty even."

Pulling out his wallet, the stranger handed him the cash. "What time should I come and pick it up? I'll be in town for at least two hours."

Donald rested his arms on the counter. The glasses on his face drooped down to his wrinkled nose, and he pushed them back up. "I'd give it a good hour and a half—should be ready when you come back."

"That sounds good," said the stranger. "Thank you." He turned and headed toward the door, but not without locking eyes with Matt one last time. There was something odd about him, but Matthew couldn't figure out what it was. Did they know each other from somewhere? He didn't have long to dwell on it because of Mr. Donald.

The old man was smiling from ear to ear. "It's so good to see you! What can I do for you today?" he asked. Already his hands were on the cash register as if anticipating the order.

"Let's see…" Matt thought for a moment. "I think I'll get one regular chocolate doughnut and another one with sprinkles."

"Anything else?"

He had already pulled out the money. "No," Matt shook his head, "that's all."

The donuts were wrapped up in paper and placed into a plastic bag. Matt said farewell to Donald before leaving. He walked across the parking lot with the bag in his left hand. As he entered his car, he couldn't help but think back to the man he saw in the bakery. His blue eyes reminded him of a cold blooded killer, though his apparel showed anything but. It unnerved Matt more than what it should have. _Stop being so paranoid,_ he said to himself as he laid the donuts down on the passenger seat. Emily was probably up by now. He hadn't mentioned that he was going shopping, but he believed she wouldn't care after he explained why. He wanted to keep this afternoon a secret; however, he'd learned long ago that being secretive around Emily wasn't the best course of action.

She was standing on the porch when he pulled up. There were several questions on her mind, but the first one she actually asked was: "Where were you?" Noticing that the bag in his hand was from Donald's, she asked her second question: "You bought us breakfast?"

"Yep," Matthew said. "Thought you might be hungry. I know how much you love donuts." For the first time in a long time, he saw a small smile spread on her face, but she quickly covered it up with her hand. He gave her the bag and continued: "I also have another surprise for you." Smiling, he rushed down the steps and opened the boot of his car. Emily remained speechless on the porch. The wine had managed to remain at the perfect temperature. Keeping everything in a total of three bags, he closed the boot and met Emily as she headed indoors.

Once they were in the kitchen and were chewing on their donuts, he brought out the wine and steaks. "I thought we could have dinner tonight here. You know, instead of going out to eat."

Emily studied what he had bought for them and couldn't believe it. "I never expected this of you," she said, taking the bottle into her hands after finishing her doughnut. "Not a bad choice," she said, reading the label, "though, next time, let me choose the wine."

Matt laughed. "Yeah, I didn't really know what I was doing." He fixed himself a cup of coffee and ate his own chocolate doughnut.

"Well," she began, touching his arm, "you can make it up to me tonight. I'm looking forward to our dinner. I hope you haven't forgotten how to cook."

He didn't want her to stop there. The moment he felt her next to him, he swooped her up in his arms. They kissed deeply. She was his Emily. People didn't know her like he did. She wasn't the person they believed her to be. And it could be proven by how her eyes sparkled beneath the lamp of compassion, and how they spoke a thousand tales filled with pain and sorrow. As she matured, Matt could tell that she truly regretted her actions in the past. It was simply learning to cope with what happened on the mountain that made moving forward difficult. He knew this. That's why he never gave up on her. If only she would find it in her heart to forgive Mike and the rest of them . . .

But thoughts like those were for another time. What mattered to him right now was this moment. Their love for each other had been renewed, and they remembered just what it was that drew them together in the first place. He brought them to the couch, and they sat for several moments in silence. It was a little awkward, but they didn't care. There weren't any words to describe the way they were feeling. She rested her head on his shoulder and melted into his body.

"What are we doing, Matt . . ." calmly came the words from her mouth.

"What do you mean?" He continued holding her, not wanting to let go for even a second.

"You know . . ." her voice was shaky, almost like she was unsure of what to say next. "Ever since the incident, we've been at each other's throat." It was a new kind of experience for her to be so open with him. "What's happened to us? We're a total wreck." His radiating warmth was enough to appease the tension she started to feel in her body.

"We're not _that_ bad, Em," Matt replied half humorously and half seriously. "I think we could be doing a lot worse. We're both working, we live in a nice house, and we're together. What more could I ask for?" He noticed the tears forming in her eyes. Tracing his hand lightly over her cheek, he wiped them away before kissing her again.

"Yeah, sounds like we're living the perfect life," she hadn't realized how sarcastic that sounded until she said it. "Not that I'm complaining. You're alright."

Matt smiled. "Just alright?"

"I don't know, depends on how well our dinner tonight goes."

"You have nothing to worry about," he assured, "it'll be perfect. Just you, me, some good wine, and my world famous steaks."

"World famous, huh?" She playfully nudged his side with her elbow. "I'll be the judge of that."

Afternoon arrived quickly. They had spent many hours watching movies and talking. The wine remained untouched on the counter, while the steaks were kept in the refrigerator. Matt planned on putting them on the grill at around five o'clock, meaning that they'd be done by at least seven. He wanted to wait until it was pitch black outside so they could sit by candle light as they dined.

"I'm hungry now though," she complained. "Go fix me a snack or something." Looking at the clock, it read: 3:00 pm. She sat up straight on the couch and reached for the remote on the table. The movie they had just finished watching was on HBO: _As Good as It Gets._ It was a classic, and one Emily enjoyed immensely.

Matt entered the kitchen to get her a snack. Opening the refrigerator, he plucked a ripe apple from its bag and headed over to the trashcan with a knife to peel it. As he did so, Emily flipped through the channels, but was unable to find anything. They had an entire shelf dedicated solely to DVDs and Blurays. There was an ample selection of movies from _Groundhog Day_ to _Friday the 13_ _th_ _._

"Anything you're in the mood for?" she asked, strumming through each movie case.

He finished peeling the fruit and sat back down on the couch. "I don't really care," he said, handing her the apple. "Whatever you want to watch is fine with me."

The movie they ended up agreeing on was: _Back to the Future._ Emily thanked Matt for the apple and munched on it quietly. Once she was finished eating it, and after she had pressed play on the remote, she went to the kitchen to throw away the core and fix herself a cup of water. Sitting back down, she and Matt smiled at one another. "Thirsty?" she asked, offering him some of her drink.

"Parched, actually." Matt took the cup from her hands and took several sips. He then placed it on the table, picked up the remote, and turned the television up.

Emily, in the meantime, sat there thinking a few things to herself. She hardly paid attention to what was showing on the screen, but instead kept glancing over at Matt. She desperately wanted to say something to him; however, she couldn't find a way to word it. Her feelings for him had never felt so strongly as they did right now. It was both a memorizing and scary experience. "Matt?" she finally asked.

"What is it?" He turned from the television and gave her a curious look. She now had his full undivided attention.

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

A pause followed. "Nothing. Never mind."

He laid his hand on hers. "Em . . . you know you can trust me, right?"

"I know, it's just . . ." She sighed. "Damn it, Matt. How do you stay so grounded despite everything that's happened?" Her voice wavered into uneasiness. "I can't go a day without thinking about it."

Matt wasn't sure how he could answer her question. He reflected deeply for a minute, examining multiple reasons inside his head. "I'm not completely over it myself." He chose honesty. "What happened on the mountain, it was terrifying." The memories of that night slowly began creeping their way into his mind. "I don't think any of us will ever be the same. But what I _do_ know is that my feelings toward you haven't changed. You're the reason why I get up everyday. Without you, I'd have nothing. I love you, Em."

They hugged and kissed one another.

"I love you too."

* * *

 _ **November 20**_ _ **th**_ _ **2016 Saturday**_

 _ **4:00 pm**_

 _ **Sam**_

Meeting Lydia and Marybeth weighed heavily on Sam's mind for the next few days. They were a wonderful family, and she was glad that she went with Josh to visit them. She always knew her friend had a kind heart, but what he did for Elliot was beyond kindness. It was compassionate. People could say whatever they wanted about him, it still wouldn't change the fact that Josh was a good person. And Sam admired him for it.

However, that didn't mean he couldn't be a real asshole sometimes.

 _Josh: Sammy!_

 _(no answer)_

 _Josh: Sam!_

 _(no answer)_

 _Josh: Samantha!_

 _(no answer)_

 _Josh: Ms. Cheerleader!_

 _(no answer)_

 _John: Why aren't you responding to my texts?!_

 _Sam: Josh! Quit texting me! I'm in the middle of driving!_

 _Josh: I only texted you five times._

 _Sam: In the past ten minutes._

 _Josh: You wouldn't pick up…_

 _Sam: What could you possibly want?_

 _Josh: Nothing. Geeze. You're way too grouchy right now. Is there another Samantha I could talk to?_

 _Sam: -_- Really? I'm about to turn off my phone. I'm not getting in a wreck because of you._

 _Josh: Well, EXCUSE me! Can you at least answer one question: where are you going?_

 _Sam: Animal shelter._

 _Josh: Why are you going there?_

 _Sam: You said only one question._

 _John: Please, answer this last one, and I swear I'll leave you alone._

 _Sam: You've gotta be the most annoying texter on the planet. Fine . . . My aunt is celebrating her birthday today, and I'm buying her a puppy._

 _John: Which aunt?_

 _(no answer)_

 _John: Hmm… I see._

 _(no answer)_

After turning off her phone, she tossed it into her pocketbook. Josh would simply have to wait for the time being. The animal shelter wasn't too far, so he wouldn't have to wait long. There were only a handful of cars in front of her, and after three miles she turned left onto a narrow road. Once she passed by the old candle factory, she took a right and headed down one long straightaway.

Animals In Need was the name of the shelter, and they housed anything from birds to snakes. It was larger than most pounds and had a staff of over twenty people. Sam had worked there when she was younger for about six months. That was before she started going to college. She knew the two owners: Chad and Daniel (brothers.) Most of the pets brought in were usually found in abandoned homes and on the streets. They'd nurse them back to health and allow people to adopt them for a few dollars and sometimes for free. It was a great place for families to pick and choose what kind of animal they wanted. And it was the friendly staff and smart campaign management that kept business rolling for thirteen years.

Her car pulled into the gravel driveway. In the distance, she could see Daniel as he was emptying out several pounds of kitten litter into the dumpster. He looked rather good for a thirty something year old man: a calm and thoughtful face, intriguing brown eyes, and a bit of scruff around his nose and mouth.

During the spring and summer, he wore cargo shorts, sandals, and a collared shirt; however, during autumn and winter, he sported athletic sweatpants, regular shoes (sometimes boots), and a camouflaged jacket over a black shirt.

He smiled brightly when he looked up from what he was doing and saw Sam approaching. "Do my eyes deceive me or is that Samantha Giddings coming to pay some old friends a visit?" Once she was an arm-length away, he continued with: "How's life been treating you? Feels like years since we saw each other. I'm sure Chad will be glad to know you're here."

"No need to bust out the champagne," she teased. "I'm simply here to get a puppy for my aunt."

Daniel understood completely. "Of course! I just got a whole box full this morning." He motioned for her to follow him. "Cute little buggers. No more than four weeks old."

Instead of going inside the building, they simply went around to the back. Surrounding the yard was a wired fence; it was used so that no animal playing outside could escape. There were also an assortment of fun items: frisbees, balls, squeaky toys, boomerangs, etc. Only a few dogs were out running around at the moment, and Sam found herself tempted to pick up one of the balls and throw it for them to chase.

The puppies Daniel had mentioned were German Shepherds. Five in total. They had been relocated from inside the shelter to outside beneath the porch. They ran around on their stubby little paws, chasing their tails, and playfully fighting each other. One came up to Sam and started biting on her shoe strings. Unable to resist the adorableness, she picked the puppy up and rubbed its belly. "They're so cute!"

Daniel laughed. "They're a handful." He picked up a different one and ran his hand through its fur. "This morning I had to clean up at least two broken lamps and three piles of yucky dog poop."

"Not too bad for five mischievous puppies." The animal squirmed around in her arms, trying desperately to escape. She placed it back down and laughed some more. "They don't like being held it seems. I hope that won't bother Aunt Margaret—she loves dogs."

"Who doesn't?" The one Daniel was holding also wanted to be let go, though the man held on to it for a little longer before finally putting it down. "Just pick whichever one you want." He smiled.

"How much will it cost me?"

"Not a dime," Daniel replied whole-heartily. "Let's just say that it's a present from me to your aunt."

Sam nodded. "Thanks a ton. This means a lot to me. Now . . ." She squatted down and began examining each pup one by one. They each looked exactly the same; however, two were bigger than the others. It wasn't too difficult of a decision. Remembering which one had attacked her shoelaces, she picked it back up and said: "I'll take this little cutie."

"Do you want a collar for it?" Daniel asked. He started up the porch's steps, and Sam followed him.

"Sure."

Once they were inside, Daniel revealed to her a large variety of different dog collars: blues, red, greens, pinks; some with glitter, others with fake diamonds, even a few with spikes. They all looked lovely, but Sam was on a tight budget. So, for her wallet's sake, she picked the cheapest one they had: a plain green collar made out of plastic. She thanked Daniel again for taking the time to help her find the perfect puppy for her aunt, and, after she tightened the collar around the animal's neck, she left.

The ride home was filled with her favorite songs playing on the radio. The puppy also seemed to be enjoying the car ride. It was sprawled out in the backseat with its paws covering its face. Sam peered through the rear view-mirror and smiled at the scene. "Little cutie," she mumbled to herself for the second time that day. She then checked her phone to see if Josh had texted anything within the last hour. He hadn't. _I wonder what he's up to._

There was never a dull moment when you had friends like Josh: always so high energy and full of crazy ideas. Speaking of crazy ideas, one started to stir around in her own head—one that she really needed to express. But since nobody was in the car with her, she figured the puppy would do. After all, it's not like it could understand her, right? The next turn wasn't until another five miles, so that left her with enough time to explain her thoughts out loud. "I have this crazy idea. Wanna hear it?"

The puppy yawned and curled up into a ball.

"You could at least pretend you're listening," Sam huffed. "See, I have this friend," she began despite the fact that the tiny beast was asleep. "He's not like anyone I've ever known. He's rude, impatient, and a real jerk sometimes." The image of Josh's face entered her mind. "But he can also be kind and compassionate, sweet even. I dunno." She sighed and gripped the steering wheel tighter. "We kissed." It was hard getting that sentence out. "I'm not sure why we did or what made us. All I can really say is that I'm unsure about everything." She paused. "What happened last year . . . I've been running from it for so long, and being with him is only a cruel reminder. Is our friendship worth saving?"

"Wow," she wiped the water from her eyes. "That got off topic fast." Laughing at herself, she shook her head. The turn came into sight, and once she knew she was clear, she entered the turning lane. When no cars were coming, she crossed the highway onto a narrow road. "Anyways," she started over, "my crazy idea was that maybe I should invite him to my aunt's birthday party. He doesn't know most of my family, and if we're going to be best friends or whatever, he should meet them. Right? What do you think?"

Again, the puppy simply yawned.

"That's exactly what I was thinking…" She reached for her cellphone after making her decision.

 _Sam: You there?_

 _Josh: Yep. What's up?_

 _Sam: How would you like to go with me to my aunt's house? We're throwing a party._

 _Josh: Hmm…_

 _Sam: Come on, don't leave me in suspense._

 _Josh: Alright, Sammy. I'll bite. What time will you pick me up?_

 _Sam: How does right now sound?_

 _Josh: That barely gives me enough time to take a shower._

 _Sam: I'm sure you'll manage tough guy._

 _Josh: Fine. Fine. See you soon._

 _Sam: See you._


End file.
